I’ve wanted to travel to Antarctica since before I was a professional travel journalist. Fascinated by the tales of Shackleton, Byrd and Scott, I wanted that sense of discovery of a wild, untamed continent, minus the frostbite, hypothermia or near starvation.

One of the main reasons I hadn’t yet ventured to Antarctica was the immense carbon footprint. According to a study quoted by Sierra Magazine, an average trip releases four tons of CO2 emissions per passenger. If I were to offset that myself, I’d need to plant more than 120 trees. My lawn isn’t that big, and my HOA would immediately order me to cut them down anyway.

When I learned some cruise companies offset the carbon footprint of Antarctica travel, I was intrigued. Many offer the opportunity to help with citizen-science projects and also bring along actual researchers studying climate change’s impact on the landscape and wildlife. That’s why in early March, jet-lagged from more than 24 hours of travel, I climbed aboard the SS Greg Mortimer, named after noted Australian explorer and founder of Aurora Expeditions.

That commitment to science and stewardship is an increasing reason people choose Aurora, says expedition leader Daniel Stavert. “As the number of travelers to Antarctica increases, so does our impact,” Stavert says. “The fragile wilderness that we came to experience has to be protected.”

Because no country owns Antarctica, tourism rules are set by an organization called the International Association of Antarctic Tour Operators (IAATO). But not all tour operators abide by these regulations. Stavert — a dead ringer for actor Jeremy Davies but with a cool Aussie accent and embroidered puffy vest — announced the rules our first night onboard the ship. No food or drinks were permitted on land, save for water. We couldn’t leave anything behind or take anything, be it a rock or a particularly cuddly penguin. We had to stay at least 15 feet away from wildlife at all times. Our bags and clothing were meticulously checked for possible invasive contaminants before we visited the continent, and we needed to disinfect our boots and hiking poles after each landing. Each rule was meant to keep Antarctica as pristine and wild as possible.

The vessel Rob Annis

Yo Ho, All Hands

The worst part of the journey was crossing the Drake Passage, 500-plus miles of open water renowned for rough passage. I have friends who’ve done similar journeys, and their stories ranged from a kitchen blender set to low to the sea behaving like a temperamental four-year-old after a sugar bender. The way out was a bit rougher than normal, according to the crew, which I took as encouragement to tear into my stash of Dramamine. We made the most of our time on the open sea, with various live lectures on Antarctic wildlife, history and science, which I mostly watched in a dimenhydrinate stupor from my cabin.

As the Drake calmed a bit, I spent more time exploring the ship. Expedition ships are typically smaller than the Carnival-branded behemoths that ferry retirees from Miami to Bermuda. The nose of the Greg Mortimer is designed to cut through the ice. We had around 100 passengers aboard the ship, mostly a mix of Americans, Brits and Aussies. The guides hailed from destinations far and wide, brought together by a shared love of Antarctic adventure.

Dining hall options were pretty varied — breakfast and lunch buffets and à la carte menu options for dinner. There were a couple of bars on board, as well as a library where we could learn more about the continent we were currently making a beeline for.

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Taking samples Rob Annis

Citizen Science

With his dark beard, perfectly symmetrical cheekbones and affable demeanor, Dr. Ryan Jones looks like he’s starring in a Hallmark movie about a marine ecologist who charms an attractive young female oil executive with his small-town charm and sobering data about rising ocean temperatures. (Based on at least a few whispers during the cruise, more than a few of the elderly ladies on board wanted to audition to be his leading lady.) Using a crossbow and special-tipped biopsy arrows, Jones and his University of California Santa Cruz’s Friedlaender Lab teammates were taking skin and blubber samples from whales encountered on the journey.

During our journey and the previous one, they collected samples from more than 80 humpbacks, two fin whales and five minkies. The skin samples tell researchers if the whales are male or female, their pregnancy status and cortisol levels, as well as levels of heavy metals or other toxins. That data, combined with other research, will give significant insights into the overall health of the species, their breeding cycles and more.

“Most marine biology is funded by the federal government,” Jones says. But with the current chaos surrounding the government, public support, private donations and relationships with cruise companies like Aurora “have never been more important.”

Late on the third day, we saw land — Snow Island in the South Shetlands. That’s where we’d make our first landfall. The announcement came at dinner, causing the entire room to hastily gobble up the remainder of their entrees and head to their rooms to gear up. It was dusk when we stepped foot on the island, already surrounded by gentoo penguins and adolescent elephant seals. It was an almost overwhelming feeling. Touching boots to ground in Antarctica — even the outlying islands — felt amazing, the culmination of decades of dreams. Looking around at the other passengers, I could tell many of them were feeling the same thing. Because of the rapidly approaching darkness, we only stayed on the beach for 40 minutes or so, but that memory will stay with me for a lifetime.

The next day, I was on a zodiac, taking variety of water samples to detect levels of phytoplankton. It was a two-person job, but we had seven, including our guide Annette Scheffer, in the rubber boat. We all took turns lowering nets and sample bottles and doing water-quality readings. At times, it felt a bit like busy work, more for us to feel like we were doing something productive. But Stavert insisted we were filling in important gaps.

“Our citizen science projects get data that would otherwise be very expensive,” Stavert says. “We’re covering more ground than a typical science vessel and going places they may not normally venture.” Having professional scientists, like the whale team, was mutually beneficial. The scientists were able to gather data, which will hopefully be used to help protect the wildlife and landscapes passengers are paying thousands of dollars to visit.

On day five, we spent the morning traveling the peninsula, looking for the perfect spot to drop anchor and step onto the actual continent for the first time. We made landfall at Brown Bluff, a noted penguin colony nestled atop volcanic rock. We had an all-too-brief experience before increasing winds forced us back to the ship. But we’d officially reached Antarctica, and no one could take that away from us.

Rubbing elbows with the locals Rob Annis

Boots Down in Antarctica

The original plan was to spend several days exploring the Weddell Sea area, but ice and weather had us retreating across the Antarctic peninsula. At least one elderly gentleman wasn’t too happy about that, a fact he shared with anyone within earshot. But even in those early days, it was apparent we’d have to be nimble, taking what experiences we could for however long we could, before weather and circumstance caused us to pivot. Our trip was at the tail end of the season, and brutal winter weather was peaking around the corner.

It was on one of these early journeys onto land that I discovered the true polar peril — penguin poop. Landing at a gentoo penguin colony, we discovered nearly every square inch was covered in penguin scat. It makes sense they won’t poop in the water; they swim in there, after all. But combine already slick rocks with even slippier penguin excrement and add in wobbly senior citizens, and you’ve got a real disaster scenario. A few of the adventurers took a spill and would spend the evening trying to get stool stains out of polyester parkas in their room showers. But it got me thinking: How many famous polar adventurers actually died because of penguin poop? Did a famed captain slip on poo-splattered rocks, splitting his head open, only to have his embarrassed crew invent a more reputation-saving story? How many polar graves are filled with sailors that took a header after slipping on excrement-covered outcroppings? We’ll likely never know.

One of the highlights of the trip for me was getting to do a polar paddle. Kayaking in the Antarctic was a different experience. Paddling just above the frigid water, surrounded by an eerie silence broken only by the sound of my paddle gliding through the water. Every now and then, we’d have to squeeze between an iceberg and the land mass we were paddling, the vast openness of the frozen landscape giving way to the claustrophobic feeling of ice and land closing in on us.

After an hour on the water, we made landfall at Portal Point. Climbing up onto a rise, I saw a vast expanse of glaciers snuggled between mountains above an impossibly blue bay littered with icebergs. I’ve traveled the world and seen many gorgeous places, but I wasn’t prepared for how beautiful this scene was. I stood there for maybe 20 minutes, snapping photos, unable to look away.

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

Scenes from the White Continent

It was only fitting that after such a wonderful moment, we would receive bad news. The ship’s crew had been tracking bad weather coming into the area. We’d managed to skirt some of it, but the worsening storm meant we’d have to cut our Antarctica adventure a day short. The next day would be our last, but we were all determined to make it a memorable one.

We had our final two landings the following day. I’ll remember the first, mostly for the feisty penguin who chased me around the beach, determined to chomp on my hiking pole. The second, Deception Island, was an active volcano. Shaped like a horseshoe, we sailed into the middle of the island and launched zodiacs. Reaching down into the beach’s sand, the water was hot. (Not so much further out; remember that.) I wondered if this was a vacation spot for the Spheniscidae White Lotus penguins who were camped out on the beach.

Dilapidated buildings ringed the beach. This had been a whaling hub, then a scientific research station for decades until volcanic eruptions in 1969 and 1970 forced its closure. The buildings were slowly falling apart, while items long buried by tons of volcanic ash — including a large, rusted-out farm tractor — were being unearthed by the harsh elements.

They say Deception Island has the warmest water in the Antarctic, but I’d soon learn that’s damning with faint praise. This was the spot where we’d do our polar plunge. Stripping down to my swim trunks, I ran out into the frigid, one-degree water, wondering if the hypothermia or frostbite would do the most lingering damage. I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed a hot shower as much as I did in the aftermath of my short swim.

The remaining days were spent crossing the Drake again, the seas a bit rougher than the trip out. Cracking open the Dramamine, I reflected on the previous week and a half. It was an incredible trip, but was my conscience clean? I felt like I did some good helping with the various science projects, but was that enough?

“When you feel involved [via science], when you fall in love with the environment, you’re more likely to act later [to save it],” Stavert says.

Antarctica made a lasting impression on me, and I plan to find other ways to relieve any lingering guilt. I’ll be framing photos I took on the trip, hanging them near my computer. At least once a week, I’ll send a letter or an email to one of the 57 companies responsible for 80% of global emissions, demanding they divest themselves from fossil fuels, and if not, I’ll boycott their business going forward. Then do exactly that. Maybe I’ll add a link to the photos I share on social media, encouraging friends and followers to boycott as well.

Is it likely to do any good? If it’s just one person, no. But if every one of the tens of thousands of people who visit Antarctica each year did the same, maybe we could move the needle enough to see some change before the icebergs disappear.