The reports I sent from Antarctica were written rapidly with little opportunity for me to revise or edit them after they appeared in the special forum I created. After I returned home, I edited them into a more readable mass, which continues below. At a later date, I hope to post some of the sketches I made during our two weeks in Antarctica. Also on my schedule is writing a two-part article of about 3,000 words for a publication that has requested it. The two-week adventure that Rose and I took to Antarctica this January with Lindblad Expeditions and with the Carleton College Alumni Adventure group certainly ranks as the most exciting trip we've ever made--and we've traveled all over the world. I hope you enjoy it as armchair travelers.

1. Voyage to the Bottom of the World

An Alumni Adventure to the White Continent

"Why would you want to go to Antarctica?"

Before our departure to the White Continent, it seemed so many of our friends asked that question. Not always stated was the fact that Antarctica at the very bottom of the world can be a very cold place. Winds of 150 mph and temperatures 50 or more degrees below zero (Fahrenheit) are not uncommon at the South Pole, at least during the Antarctic winter.

But we were going in January, the Antarctic summer. When my wife Rose and I suggested to our friends that we would encounter sunny days with temperatures in the 30s (warmer than Chicago that time of year), they didn't always believe us. And I wasn't sure I believed it myself, particularly after receiving a Christmas card from friends who had traveled to Antarctica the previous winter only to be bombarded by 30-foot waves crossing the Drake Passage, the 550-mile stretch of water separating Antarctica from the tip of South America. That didn't sound like fun, except by the time we got their card, it was too late to cancel.

Not that we wanted to anyway. Rose and I were participating in an Alumni Adventure sponsored by Carleton College, my alma mater. Many colleges and universities offer similar trips for their alumni, usually providing a faculty member or two to convert the trip into an intellectual experience. In recent years, we have participated in Alumni Adventures to Santa Fe (art and opera); Spring Green (art and theatre) and Chicago (art and jazz). But those were merely long weekends, whereas the trip to Antarctica would last two weeks and take us to a part of the world where we might not encounter paintings by Picasso.

We might encounter memories of Larry Gould, however, and Carleton archivist Eric Hillemann would accompany us to invoke those memories. Eric currently is writing a biography of Laurence McKinley Gould, PhD, president of Carleton during my stay on campus in the early 1950s. Dr. Gould had been second in command on Admiral Richard E. Byrd's 1928 expedition to the South Pole. Dr. Gould's specialty was geology, and we also would have traveling with us geology professor Shelby Boardman.

Returning from the Byrd Expedition, Dr. Gould wrote a book chronicling his experiences. Titled Cold, it described a dogsled journey to the Queen Maud mountain, climaxed by a climb of that peak 15,000 feet high. In Cold, Dr. Gould wrote: "No symphony I have ever heard, no work of art. . . ever gave me quite the thrill that I had when I reached out after that strenuous climb and picked up a piece of rock to find it sandstone. It was just the rock I had come to the Antarctic to find."

Dr. Gould explained that the sandstone confirmed a theory by geologists that the continent of Antarctica once had existed in a tropical climate and at the bottom of the ocean, drifting over a period of millions of years to its present position at the bottom of the world.

During our visit to the White Continent, we would learn more about continental drift and plate tectonics from Shelby Boardman and our other aboard-ship experts, but more than memories of Larry Gould had lured us south to the White Continent. Particularly after the popularity last summer of the film March of the Penguins, Rose and I were lured by the promise of observing in their natural habitat those fascinating birds. And we would see plenty of penguins. That was assured us as we began our journey to the bottom of the world.

2. From Ushuaia to Antarctica
Our voyage begins at the world's southernmost city

Ushuaia at the tip of South America is the southernmost city in the world. Thinking it mainly a sleepy fishing village, I was surprised to learn that Ushuaia contains 50,000 inhabitants. And despite the Argentinean city's being the departure point for trips to the Antarctic, Ushuaia does not get very cold, even through the long winter when temperatures remain mostly above freezing.

Our trip to the White Continent had begun nearly a week earlier, when, after spending the holidays at home, we drove south from Long Beach, Indiana to our winter home in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida, a trip of 1,000 miles, a day and a half's drive. After several more days gathering ourselves and repacking our bags, we continued our drive to Miami Airport. The overnight flight on LAN Airlines to Santiago, Chile took eight hours. After one night in a hotel, we boarded another flight to Ushuaia, another five hours, but our travels had only begun.

We were not scheduled to board our ship, the National Geographic Endeavor, until later that afternoon, allowing us time enough to tour Ushuaia, including a visit to a national park. The day was cloudy with some rain. Our tour guide told us about beavers, that species having been introduced to the area in 1910 in an attempt to establish a fur trade similar to that in Canada. But Ushuaia's climate proved so dramatically different than Canada's that the pelts proved worthless. More the problem, with no natural predators, beavers expanded from thirty-five mating couples to a current population of 70,000. They're also fat and lazy, our guide claimed, since they don't need to stay fit to avoid bears chasing them. Unless naturalists can control the beaver population, most of Ushuaia's trees will be gnawed and gone within a dozen years. The naturalists even tried birth control, but I guess the beavers wouldn't put on the condoms.

In the nineteenth century, British naturalist Charles Darwin visited the area, sailing through the Beagle Channel, named later after the name of his ship. The area's only inhabitants then were native Indians, Fuegians, now extinct because of diseases brought by the white men. Darwin later would use what he learned about the Fuegians while writing his book, The Origin of the Species.

We finally boarded the Endeavor around 6:00, and settled into our upper-deck cabin. Traveling to Antarctica is not cheap, and our cruise with Lindblad Expeditions was not cheap, because it was a small ship (about 100 passengers) and they provide scientists and naturalists who describe what you're seeing during the frequent trips ashore. Figuring this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, Rose and I splurged somewhat more, getting a cabin with two portholes for viewing the spectacular scenery.

After unpacking our bags, we reported on deck for an obligatory life preserver drill, and I located a library with three computers for sending e-mails next to a fitness center with two treadmills. Dinner proved delicious, as it would through our tip. The waiters, mostly Filipino, went out of their way to make us comfortable. Despite Lindblad being a Swedish organization, it featured an international staff with crew members from Germany, Croatia and other parts of the world.

One of our dining companions was named Michael, a Californian, but not a Carleton graduate. He had gone to Arizona State University to study classical music, but dropped out of college his sophomore year to work as a rock concert producer. While on the road, he kept sending money back to his father, telling him to buy empty desert land around Phoenix. This enabled him to retire while still in his thirties to pursue projects that interested him rather than those that made him money. As intereesting an individual as Michael was, we found many of our dinner companions had equally interesting stories to tell.

Michael said he had visited the bridge and learned that the weather as we crossed the Drake Passage might be better than anticipated. "Light winds and swells that would hit us only every twelve seconds," he predicted. Before leaving, on the recommendation of our physician, we had purchased seasickness patches that you attach to your neck. Perhaps I won't need to use them.

Edited by Hal Higdon 2/1/2006 7:08 AM

3. CALM SEAS AND PROSPEROUS VOYAGE

Cruising serenely across the world's most treacherous
stretch of oceam, the Drake Passage

I'm trying to bring the melody to mind, but all I can come up with is the title: "Calm Seas and Prosperous Voyage." Meerestille und Gluckliche Fahrt. A concert overture by Felix Mendelssohn. What a perfect description of our trip into the Antarctic so far across the Drake Passage, a 1,000-kilometer (600-mile) stretch of water considered by many to be the most treacherous ocean in the world. Remember that scene from Master and Commander? After all the worry about 30-foot waves and the need for seasick patches, the surface of the Southern Ocean seems as smooth as a bowl of raspberry Jello, if I can claim that as an analagous equivalent of Homer's wine-dark sea.

In a moment of weakness, Trip Dennis, the Endeavor's Tour Leader, confessed to us that the Drake Passage crossing is rarely as smooth. "We got lucky," he admitted. During our crossing, we attended lectures by several of the scientists aboard and learned why. The Southern Ocean is the only one on which you can circumnavigate the Earth and not collide with a continent. The ocean currents nearest the White Continent flow in a westerly direction constantly turning left so to speak. The water temperature is several degrees below zero, Celsius, because salt water can freeze at a lower temperature than fresh water. Meanwhile, warmer tropical waters flow down from the north, also turning left, eastward, and slide along the warmer waters, converging with them, so to speak, but not merging.

This is the Antarctic Convergence, and while the political boundary of Antarctica is pinned at 60 degrees latitude, the geophysical boundary is actually at this converging of water. A single degree represents 60 nautical miles. Within that distance, water temperatures can drop 6 degrees Celsius, nearly 10 degrees Fahrenheit. Air temperature drops accordingly from 45 to 35 at the time of year we crossed. Rose and I were standing on the stern when the Captain announced that plummeting water temperatures indicated that we were crossing the Antarctic Convergence, thus we had reached the continent. Maybe it was psychological, but it seemed to get suddenly colder. We are here!

The collision of warm and cold waters causes nutrients from the bottom of the ocean to be sucked up toward the surface, a food source for everything that feeds in and above the ocean. A tremendous ecological shift. Some birds migrate from the South Pole all the way to the North Pole, but other species never cross the Antarctic Convergence. Incidentally, if you saw that Coca-Cola commercial in theatres recently, showing penguins and Polar bears, penguins never go north to the Arctic; Polar bears never go south to the Antarctic.

As for our blessed calm seas and prosperous voyage, as one of our lecturers explained, weather systems also circle above this convergence, as many as five low-pressure systems at one time circumnavigating the globe, bringing nasty weather to the Drake Passage, those 30-foot waves that we had been warned about. Between those lows, however, the weather calms. You can't predict where these lows will be when you plan your journey a year in advance. "It's blind luck that allowed us to sneak through the system," Trip explained. A bit like sprinting across the Dan Ryan Expressway and not getting hit by a semi.

Should I tell you now about plate tectonics, once called continental drift, the subject of the lecture by Carleton geologist Shelly Boardman, the fact that 150 million years ago (a flicker of the eyelash in geologic time), the continents were connected. Then gradually, they moved away from each other, South America separating from Africa, India sliding north to collide with Asia, its bump pushing the Himalayan Mountains to their heights near 29,000 feet. Had we cruised to the Antarctic 150 million years ago, we might have found a climate similar to that of Hawaii, although we would encounter weather warmer than some of our friends back in Chicago might have thought, warmer here this time of year than warmer there. Just don't come in August.

Much of our time when not attending lectures was spent conversing with our shipmates, including Meredith Sheehy from Salem, Oregon, Carleton class of 1948. Several of her friends posted to my blog that they were worried about Meredith, who will celebrate her eightieth birthday the day after she returns home. No worry since she is in better shape than many of us shipboard, including me since I am sitting in front of computer only a few feet from a treadmill being spun by someone else. I should get up and run on it. The ship is moving so gently balance should not be a problem. But breakfast will be served in a few minutes as I write this, and it is a matter of priorities.

The Captain told us yesterday evening at a reception (where I downed a pint of Guinness Stout) that we were making such good time because of Mendelssohn's calm seas that we may see land later this afternoon, the Shetland Islands, although I am not sure whether we will get off the ship.

So much to do; so much to explore. This is, indeed, a fantastic and prosperous voyage.

4. MARCHING WITH PENGUINS

We learn to coexist with these remarkably, speedy birds

I have just returned by Zodiac to the Endeavor--minutes ago. For several hours after landing on a stone-covered beach, we were clambering over rocks among penguins--hundreds of them, maybe thousands of them. We have landed in the Antarctic.

Because of the clear weather resulting in a smooth crossing, we stopped early thisafternoon on Aitch Island (for H)in the South Shetland Islands, a "bonus," Trip our tour leader claimed, a place they don't always stop. The last time the Endeavor visited, it was pouring rain, a brisk wind; even the penguins looked miserable.

They seemed happy today, and so were we. Wanting to be protected against the weather, I donned every layered item I had brought topped by a parka provided by Lindblad Expeditions, bright red so our guides could easily spot us in the white landscape. I also wore mukluks, a life preserver and a backpack, which contained a camera, sketching equipment and extra gloves. After dressing, Rose and I headed down one level and clambered into Zodiac boats to be transported from our ship anchored just off the shore to the beach. Zodiacs are rubber rafts, powered by an outboard engine and specially designed for the hard use they encounter in Antarctic waters filled with floating chunks of ice. Typically, they can carry a dozen passengers along with the driver. Once ashore, we removed our life preservers, donning them again before boarding the Zodiac once more to be transported back to the ship.

Since we stepped off the Zodiacs into the water, this offered the first test of the waterproofing on my mukluks, and they passed. Not a drop. Once ashore, we stealthily hiked upward to mounds of rocks where penguins clustered--male and female--guarding their babies. We had been warned not to get too close, not to scare or threaten them, causing their heartbeats to raise from 150 to 250, burning energy they would need to feed their chicks. Our presence didn't seem threatening to the penguins. Several were as curious as us in our red parkas, as we were of them in their tuxedo-like plumage. They would waddle close, checking us out, cocking their heads sideways to see us out of one side eye or the other.

As for waddling, I think John Bingham, the Runner's World columnist who bills himself as The Penguin, has given the birds a bad reputation, suggesting that they are slow, awkward looking, like back-of-the pack marathoners. Maybe so if seen in films--even last summer's hit flick, March of the Penguins--but now that I have seen these remarkable birds in their natural environment, I realize they're quite swift. They may seem to waddle, but they can move fast, particularly if another penguin enters their space, resulting in a pecking duel. Penguins do a lot of pecking.

I saw one penguin clamber up what was almost a sheer rock face. No human mountain climber could have kept pace with him. The colony where we landed was chinstrap penguins, which have very strong claws, good for climbing. On the other side of a rock was the remnants of the snow and ice that had covered the island until a month or so when pack ice also filled the bay. Several penguins were hiking up and down the snow hill for no other reason than it must have been fun. In the water, the birds swim fast and gracefully, popping up and down on the surface like porpoises. When they want to exit the water, they jump out of the water and onto ice shelves ten feet or more high like corks popped out of champagne bottles.

With all my layers, I definitely was overdressed. The sun was out and the temperature probably was close to 40 Fahrenheit. There was relatively little wind if you stayed off the ridges. I unzipped my jacket and removed my bulky ski gloves, taking out a sketchbook so I could draw some pictures of the bay, the rock cliffs and the penguins. Rose used one of the two throwaway cameras we bought just before leaving to take pictures of the penguins. Photographically, we definitely had been outclassed by our shipmates, all of whom seemed to own expensive, digital cameras with long lenses. I had planned to purchase a new digital before departing, but with Christmas and our entire family visiting, we ran out of time. No matter: I can sketch.

After several hours ashore, we returned to the ship by Zodiac. Before and after going ashore, we scrub our boots in an attempt to not alter the environment. Rose headed to the library for hot tea. I couldn't wait to get to the computer to describe to everybody reading this blog what we both agreed was one of the more memorable days of our lives.

And it soon would get even better!

5. PENGUINS ON AN ICE FLOW
With millions of penguins seen this trip, why were these two important?

Two Emperor penguins on an ice flow. Is it worth being rolled out of bed before six in the morning to see such a sight? Why not? I didn't come all the way down here to the bottom of the world to play video games.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." We received that gentle, almost apologetic greeting through the onboard loudspeaker system at 5:22 AM. Trip, our tour director, was giving us a gentle wake-up call, as last night he had promised to do if they spotted anything interesting sailing through the Antarctic Channel en route to Devil Island, our destination later this morning.

Just those words, no more. Then five minutes of silence. Finally, the announcement that the officers on the bridge had spotted two Emperor penguins on an ice flow ahead. We were going to drift gently toward them. Rose and I got out of bed and threw on clothes and our red parkas.

Several dozen others with binoculars and cameras had beaten us to the front deck. They were all looking off the starboard bow and pointing. I couldn't see anything. "The flat flow," someone indicated. I still couldn't see anything. I didn't want to admit my lack of observational skills. Finally, I made out two tiny, black spots. They were moving, as curious about our massive ship as we were about their elegant presence. Fortunately, they stayed on the flow, shifting back and forth from time to time.

Why should we care about emperor penguins, the breed of bird seen in the film March of the Penguins. On some of our stops ashore later in the voyage, we would see hundreds of thousands of penguins in a single location. What made the effort worthwhile was that, unlike other penguin breeds, emperor penguins only very rarely wander north of the Antarctic Circle. Unless you traveled deep into the Antarctic, you might never see one. Why this pair had wandered so far north of their natural habitat, no one could say.

Equally impressive as this pair was the setting. Who said the Antarctic was cold? The temperature at that hour of the morning was probably in the upper 20s with not a cloud in the sky and very little wind. The sun had been up for several hours, and as it continued to rise, temperatures would rise with it to the upper 30s by mid-afternoon. We drifted closer to the ice flow with the penguins on it, observed the pair, then backed away.

Which was more spectacular, that or an encounter we had with a pair of whales last night about an hour after I had filed my previous blog report? A mother and her calf were frolicking off the bow of our ship, and we tracked them. The calf, according to one of the whale experts aboard, probably had been birthed last June or July off the west coast of South America--Columbia or Peru--and now had come down with its mum to feed in the Antarctic.

The calf could not yet dive deep, so Mum did all of the food gathering. At one point, she sounded and disappeared below for four minute, feeding on krill, shrimp-like creatures, an inch or two long, one of the main food sources in these waters, the bottom of the food chain so to speak. After Mum returned she let out a spray of reddish material into the ocean: krill poop, colored because of the red color of the krill. Penguins also feed on krill. And seals feed on penguins and krill. And whales feed on seals and penguins and krill. It's the way of nature.

It was marvelous to see these two humpback whales frolicking in the waves, putting on a show for us, not the least bit spooked by our presence. The calf, particularly, would get all nervous if Mum stayed down too long and start jumping all over the place. But neither whale saw the Endeavor, massive as our ship was, as a threst. We were not whalers. We were not going to sink a harpoon into them--if they knew that. The calf was about 20 feet long; Mum, about 35 feet. It would be another half year or more before the calf would move on to its own life.

We had dinner last night with Floyd Short and his wife, Faye. They live in Seattle. Floyd was a year behind me at Carleton in the class of 1954. He is a retired cardiologist, but at one time had considered focusing on exercise physiology. Floyd had been involved in some of the original studies of fast twitch and slow twitch muscles done by Bengt Saltin of Norway in the early 1960s. Also, shortly after graduating from Carleton he had spent several days at a ranch in Western Kansas. Working there was an individual named Wes Santee, America's top miler at that time. Although I ran longer distances in college, I sometimes competed in the same track meets as Wes Santee. He might have broken the 4:00 mile about the time Roger Bannister and John Landy dipped under that time barrier, but he ran into problems with the Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) that prevented him from fulfilling his potential.

Later this morning, after breakfast, we are going to go for a long hike on Devil Island. I'll describe what happens in my next post to AntarcticBlog.

6. THE ATTACK OF THE GIANT SKUA
During which our hero learns that wildlife can be wild

Halfway up Devil Island's north peak, I looked up and saw a giant skua aimed straight at my head. Without realizing it, I had climbed too close to the skua's nest, and he was doing his skua thing: scaring off me, the invader. I ducked, and the skua swooped past without striking and floated through a 180-degree turn to make another run at me. I didn't know the location of the skua's nest so didn't know which way to move. Another swoop; another near miss.

I held my hand high overhead since Gillian, our guide, had said skuas aim at the highest point of the body. Lower on the mountain, Rose had seen another nest-protecting skua fly within inches of Gillian's raised hand. Better to get banged on the hand than on the skull. Fortunately, I had chosen a tack away from the skua's nest. The bird soon lost interest in us.

We had landed on Devil Island soon after 9:00, coming ashore in Zodiac rafts, wearing life preservers, heavily bundled against the cold, except it was hardly cold: mid-30s, maybe warmer still. We followed a path along the shore past clusters of penguins, then headed uphill to the first of the two peaks, horns if you will, that gave Devil Island its name. Then up over loose rock, the start of a 600-foot climb, difficult, because when you placed a foot on a rock, you couldn't predict whether it was solid or would slide under your foot. Halfway up the slope,, Rose paused to remain on a shoulder with Gillian, near a different giant skua's nest, not so much to view the bird but to help warn other trekkers away. I continued up, reaching the high point after a climb that forced me to pause frequently to catch my breath.

Awaiting me was a magnificent view over the lip of a ridge to the sound below with icebergs (called bergy-bits) floating in the blue water. We could not have asked for more perfect weather: a clear sky and very little wind. I paused long enough to make several sketches, then and headed down to where Rose waited. We both decided to climb the second devil's horn, accompanied by Gillian.

After the second skua lost interest in me, we continued climbing to a rocky knoll and sat to rest. Several in our party decided to continue on a ridge to go still higher, but I was getting nervous enough sitting on the edge of what seemed like a steep drop into the ocean. We waved them on, and after several more sketches to prove I had been there, we headed down again.

Soon we were again on the beach, walking to the pickup point to climb on the Zodiacs to return to the Endeavor. Glancing up, Rose spotted another giant skua perched on a rock. It was pecking at a dead penguin chick it had snatched from its mother. When we described this later to our shipmates, several of them winced visibly. Penguins are oh so cute, and they didn't want to think of one becoming a skua's meal. But skuas need to live too. Life can be cruel in the wild.

7. MARCH OF THE RED PENGUINS

Our voyage to the White Continent is more than an exercise in scientific theory 

Sliding across the smooth surface of the western Weddell Sea in the evening before a late sunset (near 11:00), I was stunned by the emptiness of this part of the world. Surely, this is how Antarctica looked thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of years ago, even back at to the era 180 million years ago when the Antarctic landmass broke away from the single, super-continent Gonawandaland and drifted down to the bottom of the Earth to begin accumulating the glacial ice that makes it the White Continent today.

Empty, of course, for us. And sitting in the warmth of the upper-deck library looking out the wide windows, I saw evidence of our presence as we skimmed past a flat-walled iceberg and saw the shadow of the Endeavor moving on it. Is this the frozen equivalent of the shadows on the wall that Plato once talked about in The Repubic? " they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave," Plato wrote nearly 2,500 years ago. Is the shadow of the Endeavor real? Are we real? Have I taken too seriously the course in Philosophy I took at Carleton College a half century ago? Should I have enrolled instead in a course in Geology?

Yes and no, since as Carleton Geology professor Shelby Boardman, with whom we dined Thursday evening, admitted, what we know about the science has changed greatly since my graduation in 1953. The theory of plate tectonics--that continents drift--did not achieve acceptance as a scientific fact until around 1965. We know now why rocks on the top of Mount Everest at 29,002 actually were created at the bottom of the sea, to be pushed up to that height only after India broke lose from Africa and collided with the Asian mainland. Booomp! All of a sudden Edmund Hillary had something to capture his attention.

Philosophy and geophysics aside, our voyage to the White Continent is more than an exercise in scientific theory, something we could have achieved watching the Discovery Channel back home. Our voyage needed to be experienced emotionally. It is fine to know why Antarctica is here and got this way. More important is our own reaction to the experience as our shadows slide across the frozen landscape.

This morning we stopped at Paulet Island, historically significant because of twenty-two Norwegian explorers stranded there over a winter, eventually to be dramatically rescued. They built a stone shed for protection, and all of them survived.

We stepped ashore shortly after 9:00 AM, marching along the shore, all of us wearing the red parkas provided by Lindblad Expeditions. The red parkas are both comfortable and necessary. Those responsible for our safety easily can spot us, but we all look alike. We are the Red Penguins, marching past the nests of the black and white Amelie penguins, more than you can imagine. Yesterday on Devil Island, we encountered perhaps 1,000 pairs of penguins. Here on Paulet, reportedly there are 100,000 nesting pairs. Triple or quadruple that number for the actual population, given that each penguin couple at a nest has one or two fuzzy grey chicks. Figure 350,000 penguins within a short walk of our landing. We marched past them and up a hill that contained the remnants of the winter's snow with penguins running downward. I hoped that maybe an adventurous one might toboggan down on his belly, as penguins sometimes do, but they remained vertical.

And so did we--most of us. Crossing a knoll, we began a descent over treacherous rocks that tripped a few of us. Then past a small lake of melt-water to the famous stone shed once occupied by the Norwegians. It remains, roofless, a testament to the ability of man to survive seemingly unsurvivable conditions.

And now after lunch, we are sailing through a band of fog to a new destination, an actual landing on the landmass that is the Antarctic Peninsula. (All our previous landings have been on islands.) The announcement was made ten minutes ago that the Zodiacs were ready to take us ashore, and Rose just popped her head into the computer room, life preserver already around her neck, telling me that she is out in front of me. Did I mention that yesterday while I was having a massage, she went kayaking with another man? Dan Turnquist from Wyoming. She obviously is the adventurer; I the recorder of adventures. Perhaps I owe too much to Plato and not enough to those twenty-two Norwegians.

8. THROUGH NEPTUNE'S BELLOWS

How do we top each day's experience?

We just sailed through Neptune's Bellows, a narrow gap that leads into the center (actually, the caldera) of Deception Island, a still active but partially submerged volcano. Think of it as a tea cup with a crack in one side sitting half submerged in your kitchen sink. We sailed through that crack and, later today, some of us may even go swimming in a pool warmed from below.

We had been alerted to the passage through Neptune's Bellows by an announcement on the Endeavor's loudspeaker system. I grabbed my red parka and rushed to the deck. The fog was thick, the narrows narrow. Rocky cliffs on both sides. I prayed that our captain knew what he was doing, because an underwater spire in the middle of the channel could rip out hull open. The wreckage of a boat on the far side of the channel attested to one captain who failed to check his charts before sailing through.

Yesterday, we landed at Brown's Bluff, our first stop on the actual

Antarctic Peninsula, our first footfall, so to speak, on the White

Continent, my seventh continent. Rose has only six, having skipped a

business trip I took to Japan a decade ago, but the purpose of this trip is not bagging continents, but enjoying the moment. There have been so many enjoyable moments on this trip so far. How do we top each day's experience?

Two classmates from Carleton College are birders, both of them named Sue: Sue Sparling Grieff of Seattle and Sue Arnold Olson of upstate New York. Neither of the two Sues chose to make the Antarctic trip, although, coincidentally, the first Sue's brother Rand Sparling, a Princeton graduate, is with us. We now have gone one step up on her as birders, having seen a pair of snow petrels nesting in a rock cave

You won't see a snow petrel unless you come to the Antarctic. They don't range above the Antarctic Convergence. The same can be said for emperor penguins. But for me (and maybe for maybe birdwatchers), it is not sighting the birds, but rather the joy of the chase, the experience of putting oneself into position for the sighting. And so now that I have a snow petrel in my (short) catalog of bird sightings, I can move on to the next experience.

This morning it was going ashore at Bailey's Landing, on the outside of

Deception Island before passing through Neptune's Bellows into the caldera. Our wake-up call came at 5:30 before breakfast, and we went

ashore at 6:00. Amazing, how successful Trip, our tour guide, is at urging us onto these excursions, since it appeared few chose to stay in their cabins. The surf was up, posing a challenge for the landing. We aimed our Zodiacs at the shore, did a 180-degree turn, then let a wave carry up to the beach, jumping off before the wave could recede. Surprisingly, I timed my exit so that I stayed dry.

Then we marched along and across a rivulet of melt water, marching with and among penguins going in two directions. The skinny ones were penguins heading from their nests down to the ocean to feed on krill; the fat ones were those returning from feeding to bring food to their young. Penguins feed their chicks by regurgitating what they have eaten, not too pleasant a thought if you are dining in an epicurean restaurant, but it works for birds in the wild.

We came across one penguin nudging an egg with its beak, possibly not its own egg, but an infertile egg that may have been abandoned by its parents. Our naturalist guide explained that it is too late in the season for an egg to hatch, that it may have been laid by an immature penguin still trying to figure out the secrets of penguining. Us Red Penguins watched the black and white penguin with its egg, but soon he lost interest and moved off. We too lost interest and continued our march upward from the beach, encountering other penguins nesting on other eggs. One penguin was trying to incubate two. The naturalist explained that the chances of any of these late-season eggs becoming a penguin check was zero. We might mourn, but the count of penguins here on Deception Island is 70,000 pairs, meaning there are that many nests with two parents and one or two chicks. That is a lot of penguins, and, sadly,  not all of the chicks make it.

One of our red penguins wore a cap that said Squaw Valley, prompting me to nickname this as Squawk Valley, since the penguins kept up a constant clatter as we walked among them and up a lava flow. The noise was intense. The smell of penguin poop was intense enough so that it even penetrated my insensitive nostrils. Most of the poop is pink, signifying that the penguins had been feeding on, and eliminating, the remnants of krill, the tiny marine animal that is near the bottom of the food chain for all who live in the Antarctic.

We hiked to the top of a ridge with an overview of the caldera within the island. Then back down to the beach to clamber onto the Zodiacs and back to another appetizing breakfast. We would feed ourselves, and we would be fat again when we returned to shore later in the morning. As I write this, the announcement is being made to prepare to go ashore and go swimming. Do I really need to do this? Do I really want to do this? Stay tuned for the next episode, and too bad the two Sues were not along to see the snow petrel yesterday.

9. CREATURES OF THE BLACK LAGOON
Swim in the frigid Antarctic Ocean? Hey, no problem

10. PASSAGE SOUTH

Trying to avoid having a Titanic experience

Sliding stealthily south through the Lemaire Channel, a six-mile stretch of water along the western coast of Antarctica, it seemed less the Kodak moment than tour leader Trip had promised us. Dense fog shrouded the peaks of snow-tipped mountains that seemed to explode upwards from the still waters. My fellow Red Penguins with their digital cameras might have preferred a bright sunset for their photos. If you are an artist, sketching fog in black and white also is not easy. I forgot about recording the moment on computer chip or paper and let my live senses record the experience as it happened in my mind.

The channel was narrow, the mountains pressed tight upon us, ice flows and icebergs drifted nearby. There was an air of danger. I thought of the Titanic and a silly song that we used to sing as students at Carleton College oh so long ago.

Oh, it was sad,
It was sad,
It was sad when that great ship went down,
To the bottom,
There were husbands and wives,
Many children lost their lives.
It was sad when that great ship went down.

The line about the children drowning was always executed in a high and

mocking falsetto voice, as though it were fun. After I sang it once on deck, Rose made me promise not to sing it again during our voyage.

But we sailed through the Lemaire channel smoothly and soon landed at Petermann Island, where we were dropping three female scientists from Oceanites (pronounced: oh-shan-eye-tees). They would spend the next thirty-three days doing research, mostly counting penguin. In March, on its last voyage of the Antarctic winter, the Endeavor would collect them for the return home, thus fulfilling a commitment Lindblad Expeditions has for doing more than bringing wealthy tourists to the bottom of the world to stare at icebergs.

We too went ashore at least briefly at Petermann Island, roaming over snow and ice, our first experience hiking on anything but rock. To insure my balance I donned Yaktracks that I had received for Christmas. To those who asked about the spikes pulled over my mukluks, I explained that they were designed more for runners in states like Minnesota to provide firm footing over roads covered with snow. But they worked well on snowpack too.

Our stop was short. Soon we were back onboard, our goal for the day to get as far south as we could, perhaps cross the Antarctic Circle, that line on the globe below which the sun never sets on the summer solstice. The latitude for the Circle is 66 degrees 33 minutes, and since we were midway into the 65's, it seemed certain we would reach the Circle, if not blocked by icebergs or icepack.

11. ONE SPECTACULAR DAY
Icebergs to the left of us; ice flows to the right of us

Departing Petermann Island, we continued southward, our goal being to reach the Antarctic Circle: 66 degrees, 33 minutes, the line below which the sun remains above the horizon for twenty-four hours on the day of the summer solstice. Would we make it? Our tour leader Trip made no promises. We would sail as far south as possible toward the bottom of the world.

Until today, we had not been up on the bridge, although passengers were invited to visit any time as long as they did not interfere with operations. The First Officer had command, giving orders to the helmsman as we zigzagged between ice flows and icebergs: "Port ten," signaling a shift to the left of ten degrees. "Starboard twenty," as we moved back to the right twenty degrees. "Midships," meaning, hold the course. "Steady," which would seem to mean the same, but my service background was Army, not Navy.

The First Officer looked like he was having fun, a slalom skier on the slopes, joking lightly in Swedish with several others on the bridge who helped him look for hazards. At various times during the day, I spotted another crewman in the crow's next high above the bow, looking further ahead and relaying information down to the bridge, as much about sights to see as hazards to avoid.

I shifted from bridge to deck. With glaciers and craggy mountains rimming our waterway, the scenery was stunning, in fact, double stunning, since with the sea smooth as glass, everything above the horizon was reflected below the horizon. Each day in the Antarctic seemed to top the day before, and today proved no exception. Friends of ours had come down to the Antarctic encountering less kindly weather, battered badly in the Drake Passage, barely getting ashore. If that had happened to us, I would not have complained if only I had been allowed to experience this one spectacular day.

Toward the end of the day, we slowed, then stopped. We had reached 66 degrees, approximately 30 miles from the Antarctic Circle, but we would go no further. More icebergs. More icepack. And while we might have continued to weave through to push the final distance to that artificial line, there remained the danger that icebergs might drift behind us and delay our return home. So we stopped and spent an hour or two exploring between the icebergs in Zodiacs, sneaking up on seals snoozing on ice flows. Dinner was delayed while we did so. On the Endeavor, schedules were flexible, capable of alteration if some opportunity for sightseeing presented itself.

One of our new friends, Tom, hailed us in the lounge, pointing to a string of three mountains far to the south. He said that the one on the right actually was within the Antarctic Circle. Rose and I asked him to take a photo with that mountain in the background. Perhaps it will become our Christmas card next year.

13. THE SEAL AND THE WHALES

Mama Orca offers a training session for her babies

The call came around 11:00 PM, after a very long day, perhaps the most exciting day of the trip so far. Orcas sighted. Trip invited us to come up to deck in whatever we were wearing, or not wearing, but after a delightful week of seeing penguins, seals, skuas and petrels, did we really need to see one more whale? Rose thought so. She started throwing on clothes. I couldn't let her see something I missed. Without bothering to don underwear, I put on jeans, sweater and the ubiquitous parka of the Red Penguins.

The Endeavor had slowed to a circling drift by the time we arrived topside. Although the sun had set, it was still light. We observed not one Orca, but a pod of four--or maybe five or six or seven according to the accounts of others. Orcas, known also as killer whales, actually are dolphins, easily identifiable by their white striped faces. Whatever their number, the pod was circling a slice of pack ice with a crab eater seal lying in the center, warily trying to distance himself from the Orcas as much as possible.

Orcas love snacking on seals. They never attack humans, no example of an Orca attacking a human ever having been recorded. But seals are blubbery creatures with lots of fat, often weighing as much as 800 pounds, a good meal. It appeared to be seal tonight on the Orca menu: All you can eat.

And as we watched fascinated (some of them admitting later that they were still wearing their nightgowns and 'jammies under those ubiquitous red parkas), the Orcas circled the ice flow, pushing it, rocking it, going beneath the flow and butting the underside of the ice with their backs. Suddenly the flow split in half, the seal quickly scrambling to the larger of the two pieces, but with less margin of safety between him and the Orcas, who occasionally poked their heads high above the water by the flow's edge to see how their prey was doing.

More rocking and pushing and the ice flow seemed to shrink. Then two or more of the Orcas backed off, then rushed the flow, creating a wave aimed at the ice flow. It struck, and the seal tumbled into the water. "Bye, bye, seal," I thought. A groan rose from our group, most of whom were cheering for the seal's survival, although others may have been pulling for the Orcas to get him.

Suddenly and miraculously, the seal reappeared on another ice flow, seemingly having eluded his pursuers underwater. Or had he? Because as we continued to watch the whales and the seal, it now appeared that the so-called killer whales were toying with their prey. Apparently one of the Orcas, the mother, had grabbed the Orca and spit him back onto another flow. "It's a training session," explained Ingrid, a naturalist from New Zealand. How incredible. We were watching a mother teaching her babies how to hunt!

The Orcas repeated the exercise, dumping the seal into water again, spitting it out for a third and final time on another flow. This time at least four of the Orcas worked together and pushed a huge wave toward the flow, swamping it and tumbling the seal into the water. We next saw it in the mouth of an Orca, now bloody, dying if not dead.

It was a unique experience, rarely seen by travelers to the White Continent. Shean, one of our guides, said he had been coming to the Antarctic for six years and had seen Orcas circling a seal on an ice flow only once, and from a distance. The ship's captain, a seasoned veteran of the Southern Ocean, had never seen such an event before.

We were doubly blessed, since the Swedish photographer accompanying our expedition captured the incident, later to appear on a DVD that I suspect almost all of us purchased. Several weeks later, Lindblad had added a clip of the incident to its web site. You can access that clip by clicking here.

And here is a second Orca Attack video.

14. RITUALS OF GOING ASHORE

Disgrace comes to the Higdon family because of a forgotten clip

Among the rituals of going ashore, along with donning life preservers before stepping into a Zodiac and scrubbing our boots afterwards to prevent contamination (including the tracking of penguin poop into our cabins), is clipping a plastic slip bearing our cabin numbers onto our red parkas. It's part of the system to insure nobody gets left ashore after the ship sails on. We remove the clip from a bulletin board, then return it to the board once we're back on the ship.

A few minutes after our return from Paradise Bay, the call came over the Endeavor's loudspeaker: "Will the occupant of Cabin 104 please return their clip to the board?" Whoops, that was our cabin number. I remembered returning my clip. Rose had been the guilty one, bringing shame and dishonor to the Higdon family name. She started to scramble into her clothes, but a knock on the door signaled that someone had come up to reclaim the clip. Fortunately, they had announced only our cabin number, not our name.

After Monday's exciting events, including the Orcas and the seal, it seemed doubtful that we could equal that, but we came close. Our first stop was at Port Charcot on the north side of Booth Island, charted by a French explorer who wintered there in 1904. We chose kayaking for our morning adventure, and I donned an extra layer of clothing because I suspected we might get wet, mainly from water dripping off the paddles and into the boat. I was right, but I have become a near expert in dressing properly for the environment. The goal is to be neither too cold nor too hot.

On days we kayak, Lindblad tows a raft to a staging area complete with its collection of wide and stable kayaks. In groups, we move to the raft and board the kayaks. The loading and unloading goes fairly smoothly. Rose chose the front of the kayak, meaning she picked the pace and did most of the paddling. I handled the steering in the rear, done with foot pedals that connect to a rudder. We were warned not to get too close to icebergs (five kayak lengths), which sometimes roll over without warning. More dangerous, glaciers can calf icebergs onto your head if you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We stayed safe, but the wind rose after a half hour at a time we were downwind from the raft. The pull to get back to it took all the energy we could muster as I tried to paddle into the lee of the shore to make our return easier. This caused us to pass perilously between an iceberg and a shore overhang, but nobody called our cabin number out with disdain.

Our return passage through the Lemaire Channel allowed the photographers to record the beauty of the mountains high overhead. In the next bay, we sighted a pod of perhaps two dozen Orcas heading south. We circled back and followed them for an hour, but if they were feeding it was well below the surface, not on ice flows occupied by seals.

We stopped late afternoon at Paradise Bay, site of a former Argentinean research station, temporarily abandoned because financial problems in that country have made money scarce for research. Our stop included a snowy hike to the top of a rocky pinnacle. Rose chose to stay at the bottom, because her boots don't grip the snow well. With my Yaktraks, I had little trouble going up, but pausing at the top to sketch the bay, I worried about the return, particularly with several dozen Red Penguins around me, who might have less purchase on the steep snow.

Not a problem. I was second in line descending, and the woman in front of me decided that she would simply slide down on her behind. This converted the snow steps we had used upward into a toboggan slide. I had no choice but to follow in kind, despite my fear that I would slide uncontrolled into the bay, but the descent proved quick and pain-free.

15. THE BREATH OF THE BEHEMOTH

Cruising in Dallmann Bay with a pair of humpback whales

The humpback whale surfaced in front of our Zodiac. The whale was so close that I could feel the spray from his blow against my face, almost taste the breath of the behemoth.

For nearly an hour we had been slowly cruising in Dallmann Bay behind a pair of whales feeding on krill. One whale had a black undertail; the other, a white undertail. The whales were aware of our presence, but it apparently didn't bother them. "Don't worry," said Ingrid, our Zodiac driver. "If they wanted to leave us, they'd simply take off. They're fast. We'd never be able to stay with them."

I almost had skipped the Zodiac ride because of fatigue as we neared the  end of our voyage to the White Continent. Earlier in the morning, we had stopped at Damoy Point, site of a former British airstrip overlooking Port Lockroy. Dressed in our Red Penguin outfits, we had hiked upward on unstable snowpack toward a rock peak. The airstrip was slanted, meaning planes with skis for landing gear landed uphill and took off downhill hurling themselves out over the water. It reminded me of an airstrip I had seen at Courcheval, a ski resort in the French Alps. It was fun watching planes from Paris use the airstrip, but I sure didn't want to be in one of them.

The climb in lightly packed snow up even a slight slant proved arduous. One by one, people in our party turned back and returned to the Endeavor. I felt compelled to push on as long as anyone else did, feeling an obligation as a marathoner that I could accept any challenge.

Thankfully, the group leaders finally paused, not wishing to climb the actual peak itself at the end of the runway. I commented to Tom, one of our new friends: "Imagine. Climbers in the Himalayas not only have to contend with snow conditions like this, but they do it in thin air."

We had been out nearly an hour, and for the first time during our trip I felt cold because of wet feet. Snow had entered over the tops of my calf-high mukluks. Wearing a nylon shell over the tops of the mukluks could have prevented this happening, but I wasn't thinking when I dressed before going ashore. (Later, after I returned to the ship, I would dump nearly an ice bucket's worth of chipped ice into our bathroom sink.) Tired, I stumbled often as my foot plants struck deep snow. Sometimes, I would collapse on my back and lie there for a few seconds gathering my breath before. Rose had turned back earlier and could only watch nervously as I picked myself up again and again and staggered down the trail. On two occasions, one of my Yaktracks came off to be retrieved by those following me. But soon my ordeal was over.

We climbed into the Zodiac and went around the point to stop at a station manned by researchers who are part of a British Antarctic Survey. In addition to keeping a penguin count, they also operate a gift shop for the cruise ships that visit on the average of one a day during the summer season. We purchased several gifts for grandkids, including some caps, but later learned that two of the teenagers considered them too freaky looking to be seen wearing the caps in school. Peer pressure does create patterns of behavior.

Port Lockroy would be our last footplant in the Antarctic, then we sailed into Dallmann Bay as prelude to entering the Drake Passage en route back to South America. Following my exhausting morning hike, I was content to nap and lounge around the library, reading a book titled "The Race to the Antarctic" that I had picked off the shelves. When whales were sighted and the Red Penguins gathered on the bow to watch, I joined them wearing only a sweatshirt, not bothering with my parka or cap and gloves. I was warm again. I figured I'd watch a while and return to my book.

Then Trip announced that we would launch Zodiacs to get closer to the whales. Still somewhat fatigued, I might have stayed on board, but each different adventure during our cruise had provided one high after another. Rose said she was going. I didn't want to be left behind while she had all the fun. Rose left early, so we wound up in different Zodiacs. Mine was driven by Ingrid Visser, a New Zealand researcher whose specialty is whales.

Moving slowly, we positioned ourselves behind the two humpbacks mentioned earlier. Rose was in another Zodiac that included Anika, the Swedish woman who was making a DVD record of our journey, but her Zodiac soon left to chase other whales. As we floated along behind the two behemoths, Ingrid explained their behavior, how they fed on krill, the shrimp-like crustaceans that are such an important part of the food chain in the Antarctic.

The humpbacks would float along on the surface for a while, rolling in and out of the water, breathing, then one or both of them would descend to the deep, gracefully displaying their tales as they disappeared from the surface. The whale with the black tail always positioned itself on the left; the whale with the white tail always positioned itself on the right.

Soon after they disappeared from the surface, bubbles would emerge from the deep. This was their "bubble net," designed to entrap the krill. Deep below the surface, the whales would circle beneath, flashing their white bellies to spook their prey. "Krill have very good eyesight," Ingrid explained. "They would begin to move upward to get away from the whales below. At the same time, the whales would release air bubbles around the krill, like cowboys with cattle, herding them upward and tighter together, then once near the surface the whales would feed, opening their mouths wide and siphoning the krill into their gullets. Finally, the whales would surface, White Tale usually first, always rolling sideways showing us its white underbelly, expanded and with pink fluting (stripes). Black Tale, for reasons even Ingrid could not explain, always surfaced belly down. They would float along the surface, blow air, clearing their lungs with a whoosh, sometimes accompanied with a bellowing sound, then descend again. On one occasion toward the end, Black Tail did a couple of cartwheels, slapping the water twice with his tail. It was almost his way of asking us, "How do you like the show" We liked it quite well, mate.

We returned to the ship for the evening recap of the day's events, followed by dinner. The Endeavor remained in the peaceful bay while we ate, probably because it was easier for the kitchen staff to serve in smooth water rather than in the wavier waters of the Drake Passage.

And now as I write this the next morning, we are into that perilous stretch of water, and it appears that we will not have the calm seas of our southward crossing, but certainly has been a prosperous voyage.

Edited by Hal Higdon 3/3/2006 8:05 AM

16. Homeward Bound

Our return through the Drake Passage proved rougher than going

Unlike our trip south through the Drake Passage, our return north tested our ability to not get seasick. The general consensus among the now shipbound Red Penguins was that we faced 20-foot waves, but I wasn't about to get out into a rowboat with a ruler to check.

This proved a challenge for my massage therapist, since I had scheduled a mid-afternoon massage for the day we would be returning. The result was a floating massage that they probably would charge extra for in a spa back home. This inspired a column for Runner's World. Many runners set as their goals running a marathon on all seven continents. (Yes, an organization does sponsor a 26-mile race on Antarctica.) I thought a more achievable goal might be to get a massage on all seven continents, particularly since I bagged two continents on this trip. Click here to read the column.

Although usually I don't suffer seasickness, I began to feel a bit woozy at dinner and retreated from the dining room before the main course. This prompted me to finally to attach a seasickness patch to my neck. They cost us enough ($40 each), and it seemed a shame not to get something for our money. Whether because of the medication or not, I survived the night without problems, and as we continued further north on the second day, the seas seemed to calm.

Most of our final day on the Endeavor was spent hanging out in the lounge and listening to lectures. I finished reading the book on Polar exploration that had occupied my idle hours during the trip. I slept well Friday night and Saturday morning we docked early in Ushuaia, visiting a museum and attending a theatrical presentation about Charles Darwin's visit to the area in his ship, the Beagle.

Then the worst part of the trip began: airport to airport to airport. From Ushuaia to Santiago to Miami, where we picked up our car and drove to our condo in Ponte Vedra Beach. Truly, our two-week trip to the White Continent exceeded all our expectations. It was an amazing adventure.

Seven Continents. Seven Massages
by Hal Higdon

Sailing the Southern Ocean, lying lazily on a massage table, rocking in rhythm to the pounding waves common to the Drake Passage, a therapist's soothing hands massaging my muscles sore from two strenuous weeks exploring Antarctica, I considered my next challenge as an athlete.

No, I wasn't returning from running a marathon on that continent. Many runners choose as their challenge completing a marathon in all fifty states, or on all seven continents. Thom Gilligan, who takes runners to Antarctica through his organization Marathon Tours, estimates that 112 men and 35 women have completed their seven-continent quest and another 40 runners will achieve that goal in the next two years. Although I have run marathons in 23 states and on five continents, I have no immediate plans to add to those numbers.

My next challenge seems more doable and certainly more pleasurable. I want to have a massage on all seven continents.

My recent trip to Antarctica allowed me to bag two of those continents, all on the same sea voyage. Rather than going to Antarctica to run a marathon, I traveled as part of a Carleton College Alumni Adventure. Although our group did some strenuous hiking over rocks, snow, ice and penguin poop, neither I nor anyone else attempted anywhere near a 26-mile run. But I did get massages while crossing the Drake Passage between South America and Antarctica, both coming and going.

That's the trick. It's where I got those massages that counted. The geophysical border between those two continents is at the Antarctic Convergence, where the chilly waters circulating counter-clockwise around Antarctica brush against warmer sub-Antarctic currents to the North flowing in an opposite direction. Within a few miles, the temperatures of both air and water can drop by ten or more degrees.

Since my massage en route to Antarctica occurred above the Convergence and my massage returning occurred below, I collected massages on two continents on one voyage. I might add that unless you have had a massage on board a ship rising and falling in rhythm to 20-foot waves, you haven't achieved the ultimate spa experience. I'm not sure how Sheila, my massage therapist, maintained her balance, but her hands never missed a stroke.

With massages on two continents now part of my resume, seemingly that leaves five continents to go. Well, not quite. As part of my fitness regimen, I regularly get massages in Indiana and Florida, my two residences. North America is continent number three. On two trips to Australia, I've gotten massages to combat jet lag in Melbourne and Sydney respectively. That's continent number four.

Europe should be continent number five, except my memory fails me. Given the fact that I have raced frequently in Europe, including several marathons, I must have gotten at least one massage. Unfortunately, I can't remember when or where. I probably need to check old training diaries to see where and how I can claim credit.

If I can confirm Europe, that still leaves Africa and Asia as continents for future massages. Despite running marathons on both continents, I may have skipped the massage table, a definite oversight on my part.

That's the bad news, the good news being that it gives me excuses to return to both continents to complete my quest. And maybe if my training diaries fail to reveal a European massage, I'll be forced to return to that continent too. Paris might be a good destination for my seventh massage on seven continents. Does anybody have the name of a good masseuse on the Champs d'Elysees?

We all need goals, especially broken-down runners.