The Return Home

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Tuesday, December 13, 2022 - Back to Ushuaia

Time to return to Arizona. I went out on deck to smell the trees as we sailed through the Beagle Channel on our approach to Ushuaia. It was a peaceful morning. The ship tied up before 7:00 am and before long our luggage was being carried off the ship and stacked on the pier, grouped by where we were going. Some, myself included, were going directly to the airport, others would linger in town waiting for later flights, and still others were transported to hotels for their after cruise activities in and around Ushuaia. 

By 9:00 am I had completed check in and found myself a nice quiet place to relax while I waited for my flight. It was originally scheduled to leave at 2:55 but around mid-morning the airport screens showed it was delayed until 4:00 pm. No matter, it was already a long wait, another hour was of little consequence.

Well, things took a left turn as we were ready to board the first leg from Ushuaia to Buenos Aires - the flight was canceled, some kind of mechanical problem, I watched them tow the aircraft away. Many were suspicious though, noting that the new flight time coincided with the start of the World Cup semifinals which pitted Argentina against Croatia. Poor Andres from the Hosteria Sloggett must have been supremely conflicted.

Tuesday, December 13, 2022 - Plans Change

After that it was chaos as the ground staff tried to pivot and the passengers tried to figure out what to do. No one really knew what the obligations of the airlines are in Argentina after they cancel a flight. The language barrier presented significant problems and led to longer times to get rebooked and confusion as to what we should be doing. We stood in queues only to find out we needed to first retrieve our luggage which had not yet been removed from the plane. 

There were large groups - 20 people or more - who leveraged one of their members ahead in line to then bring in the whole group, to the anger and resentment of the other passengers who were getting pushed back further and further. Voices were raised, unpleasantries were exchanged, but eventually everything got settled. I did lose some nice seats though and whereas I had bags checked, boarding passes, and seat assignments all the way to Phoenix on the cancelled flights, now all I had were boarding passes for two flights that would eventually land me in Buenos Aires.

I teamed up with four women from the US, UK and Australia, they graciously welcomed me into their group, and we were able to get hotel vouchers at the Tolkeyen Hotel. Others were directed to the Hotel Ushuaia in town. By most accounts we got the better hotel. The airline arranged for busses to take us to our respective hotels but the wait was so long – it was already after 7:00 pm – that me and my new group jumped into a couple of taxis and got to the hotel before anyone else. We were already checked in and enjoying a bottle of Syrah when the other passengers started trickling in.

Tuesday, December 13, 2022 - Recharge, Regroup

The Tolkeyen Hotel was an idyllic setting. The hotel was a low, log structure, well maintained, and the beds of lupines surrounding the building were in full bloom. The complex was right on the undeveloped beach and it had an unobstructed view of the Beagle Chanel and the Chilean Andes on the other side. Behind it, tree covered slopes led to the snow-covered Argentinian Andes. Horses grazed in the paddock to the east of the gravel parking area and marine birds patrolled the beach. I could have relaxed there for a week or more.

As more travelers came in, the hotel staff served dinner. Green pea soup was served as a first course and, I have to let you know that I am not a fan of green pea soup, it was absolutely fantastic. If they had served just that soup with bread I would have been completely satisfied. The main course was less than spectacular and it was probably best-described by one of our group as a “chicken-fried steak without the gravy”. Spot on. It wasn’t great but hunger and a couple more bottles of wine shared by all helped it go down.  

We each, individually, had to make our flight arrangements to our final destination and it was a challenge. First, we needed phone access – some already had it, some didn’t. I did not and I was once again kicking myself for not pre-arranging for Verizon’s TravelPass. Others had trouble getting in touch with travel agents who arranged their trips, primarily because of time differences. Eventually though, all the issues were resolved, tickets were re-booked, and everyone retired to their rooms to get some rest before returning to the airport bright and early in the morning to give departure another try. 

Wednesday, December 14, 2022 - El Calafate

The dining room opened at 7:30 am for breakfast but I was up well before that strolling along the shore, enjoying the peaceful morning. The airport was a little over a mile away across a secluded bay but all was quiet at that time of the morning, heck, even if it was the middle of the day it'd be quiet, there’s just not that many flights in and out of Ushuaia on a daily basis. 

Breakfast was light and included the omnipresent jamon y queso sandwiches as well as fresh-baked pastries and all the foods you’d expect to find in a continental breakfast buffet. One of the things I noticed in Ushuaia is that all of the baked goods I enjoyed were freshy made,  I'm guessing that the lack of a baking factory in Ushuaia and it's distance from any town of size made shipping bulk baked goods impractical.  Whatever the reason, I enjoyed baked goods that really were fresh. A quick checkout, a 5-minute taxi ride to the airport, and we were exactly where we were 24 hours ago – but this time with a different ending. 

Mine was the first flight to leave so I bade farewell to the other travelers from the Ocean Endeavour who came trickling into the airport all morning. Most were flying directly to Buenos Aires for their connecting flights home but United Airlines put me on a flight to El Calafate and then on another flight from El Calafate to Buenos Aires – Newbery. That meant that not only did I have two flights instead of one, but I also had to take ground transportation from Newbery to Eziza to board my United flight to Houston. Normally, I would grouse about the circuitous route but by this time I just decided I was in the hands of the travel gods and I surrendered to them. Besides, I got to see yet another part of Argentina. Also, I somehow got placed in business class for the first two legs of the trip so I had a more comfortable flight.

I had never heard of El Calafate before but the plane was packed with travelers of all ages, many in rugged, outdoor clothing. El Calafate is the name of a short desert scrub brush with yellow flowers and blue berries common to the area – it has a similarity to desert sage. We were close to the Andes but the ground was barren and treeless, it even lacked the pampas grasses I flew over when landing in Trelew over two weeks ago. In fact, it was very similar to a lot of the desert in Arizona and it even had about the same amount of annual rainfall – about 8 inches. There was one big difference though – Lago Argentino.

Lago Argentino is a beautiful, turquoise lake, 20 miles across at it's widest, that is fed by runoff from several glaciers in the nearby Parque Nacional Los Glaciares that straddles the border with Chile. Its arms extend well into the park and icebergs, calved from the numerous glaciers that feed the lake, are common, especially in its western reaches. Its striking turquoise color is the result of glacial flour, rock ground into dust by glacial movement, refracting skylight. The lake eventually deposits its contents into the Atlantic Ocean via the Santa Cruz River and it holds perch, trout, and galaxias – a fish found only in the southern hemisphere which, like salmon, spends its early days at sea and returns to freshwater to spawn.

The area attracts fisherman, hikers, naturalists, and those, mainly Argentinians, who just want to recharge their spirit in a unique, natural setting. In fact, the far western side of the lake with its barren mountains and abundance of snow, ice, and glaciers is reminiscent of Antarctica, and worthy of any traveler’s list. If I had known of this place earlier, I would have planned to stay for two or three days. In fact, there was a flight delay and I was hoping that it would turn into another overnighter but some time after 4:00 pm Aerolineas Argentinas' AR 1850 took off for the 3-hour flight to Buenos Aires.

Thursday, December 15, 2022 - Captain Phil

Well, these events did not quite start on December 15 but it was leading into it and they bled into the 15th, so here we go on the final day of this Antarctic adventure.

The plane landed at Buenos Aires’ Newbery Airport after 7:30 pm. My United Airlines flight to Houston left at 10:05 pm - and it was on time. Because of the delay in El Calafate I had a little over 2 hours to get off the plane, find ground transportation to Eziza airport, check-in, go through security and passport control, get to my gate, and board my flight. Considering the drive from Newbery to Eziza was at least an hour if there was no traffic it was do-able but it would be tight – very tight.

Three things worked to my advantage. First, those business class seats meant that both I and my luggage were off the plane first. Second, the city streets seemed relatively quiet after all the celebration of the evening before when Argentina won their World Cup semi-final match against Croatia, beating them 3-0. Still, by the time the Tienda Leon bus dropped me off at the Eziza terminal it was already nearly 9:00 pm.

I ran directly to the United Airlines check-in counter – there were no travelers there, they had all checked in, but two staff were still at their terminals. After I handed them my passport, one said she recognized my name from yesterday’s flight manifest and she thought I was going to miss this one as well. They hurriedly took my checked bags not even bothering to weigh them, gave me my boarding passes, and I was off to the security line. The minutes seemed to fly by with little movement in the line but, really, it was just perception. In reality, things went smoothly and fairly quickly. Then it was another jog to passport control. In Argentina, they track not only who enters their country but who leaves as well so all international travelers go through passport control - it was 9:15 by the time I got in the line.

It was another agonizing wait to get to the passport officer’s booth but once there I was quickly processed with a photo and a thumb scan. Then, as I left the passport area, the third thing appeared that worked in my favor – Gate 2, my gate, was only 30 yards away. As I ran up to the ground crew at the gate. They were issuing a last call for travelers and I was herded directly on board and to my seat – 53D, back of the bus. At least it was an aisle, although directly across from the restroom. It didn’t matter, I made the flight and, because it was one of the least desirable rows, there was only one other passenger in the row and he was at the opposite end – Captain Phil.

After I got settled in and the flight attendants were sealing the door and slamming shut the overhead bins, Captain Phil turned towards me and said, “If you can’t fly First Class, these are the next best seats on the plane.” I cocked my head, gave him a quizzical look, and said, “Huh?” He smiled and said, “Just watch, we’re going to have a great flight.”

Shortly after, the purser passed by to check the galley – it was right behind us – and as he passed, Captain Phil gave him a bag of individually wrapped Lindt chocolates telling him they were for the entire flight crew - cabin staff as well as cockpit. The purser beamed, grabbed Captain Phil’s shoulder, and gave him a sincere thanks. Captain Phil, turned to me again, smiled broadly, and gave a knowing wink.

Captain Phil is a retired U.S. Air Force Lieutenant Colonel and he exhibited all of the confidence, arrogance, and brash demeanor that some say is typical for that rank. He also is a retired commercial airline pilot who, by his account, was the second person certified to fly the Boeing 787. He liked his liquor, was very outgoing, and was pretty intelligent. He was also a great conversationalist, well, maybe he was better at monologues than conversation. At first, I thought maybe he was just a somewhat inebriated passenger whose ramblings would fade away as he drifted off to sleep but, as so many times before, I was wrong.

Now, most of us shy away from the “plane talkers” and I’m no different. The thought of being trapped in a pressurized aluminum tube hurtling through the air at 600 mph for several hours sitting next to someone telling you what they had for breakfast and showing pictures of their grandkids makes us cringe. But I sensed that Captain Phil was different so when he asked if I liked stories I said, “Sure, I love stories.” He replied, “Great! I’ve got lots of stories.” At that moment I thought that even if this was not going to be a great 10-hour flight, it was certainly going to be an interesting one. This time, I was right.

Thanks in part to a similar background, we established an immediate rapport. Captain Phil, like me, grew up in Chicago and we graduated high school a year apart. Chicago might be a decent city now but in the 1960s and 1970s it was less than decent and maybe it was indecent a lot longer than that. I mean, machine gunning a bunch of adversaries during the Great Depression on Valentine’s Day? Only in Chicago. Even the cows were mean-spirited, just ask Mrs. O’Leary whose cow destroyed the city in 1871. We both admitted to visiting Al Capone’s grave at Mt. Carmel Cemetery (every true Chicagoan of that era knows the precise location of the gray granite headstone). 

And we talked about “Grease”, the raunchy 1971 musical that debuted in Chicago and was later toned down and made famous by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John in the 1978 movie of the same name. And, for the record, the original story was based on events that occurred not at Rydell High School in California, but on events that occurred at Chicago’s Taft High School where, in the late 1960s, early 1970s, you were either a Greaser (hip, cool, tough) or a Climber (bookish & more concerned with social standing).

Captain Phil informed me what route we would be taking and why. We’d fly west-northwest out of Buenos Aires and cross over the Andes as soon as possible. After that, we’d vector north, flying off the coast of Chile and Peru, then across the Yucatan Peninsula and the Gulf of Mexico to land at Houston. A check of the route map prior to landing verified Captain Phil’s prediction. He said that he doesn’t like that route because it’s not as safe – fewer places to land in the event of an emergency – but it was cheaper for the airline.

I asked what really happened on the flight deck during long flights. Did the crew merely monitor progress while the plane flew itself or were they engaged in other responsibilities? He seemed a bit put off by the question. He explained that the cockpit crew is fully engaged every minute of the flight. They constantly monitor not only the myriad displays of modern airliners, but also the weather, traffic in the vicinity, and radio traffic. They constantly run “what if” scenarios in the event something goes wrong. As Captain Phil put it, if something goes wrong while you’re in the air, seconds matter and taking the right action immediately, without having to think about and debate the proper course of action is imperative. You have to be ready to act. 

He added that the captain receives the manifest as part of the pre-flight checklist and one of the last items on there is reminder that there are 306 souls on board (his number, which I assume is a typical load of a large, modern aircraft) – not people, not travelers, not passengers – souls. That sobering thought and awesome responsibility is planted in the flight crews’ mind just before they rev those engines and take to the sky. Captain Phil obviously took his responsibility for those souls on each of his flight very, very seriously.

We debated the de Havilland Comet – the world’s first commercial jet airliner. The first iteration of the airliner was a tragic failure, the result of design flaws. Phil contended it was because the windows were square instead of rounded and that they were riveted instead of riveted and glued. My position was that the spacing of the windows was such that the air rushing by them created a resonant harmonic that matched that of the wings, resulting in an amplification of the wings’ vertical movement, causing them to essentially flap so violently the airframe failed. We both agreed that repeated pressurization of the fuselage also played a role.

We talked about the sanctity of military valor. I mentioned that a former co-worker of mine, Dennis “Den” Knight, a WWII naval aviator who retired as a Lieutenant Commander, kept a photo on his desk of him standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier. His upper torso was protruding through a gaping hole in the right wing of his Hellcat fighter and he had a shit-eating grin on his face while waving at the camera. Den said his aircraft had taken a hit but by the grace of God nothing vital was damaged and he was able to land back on the carrier. He beat the Reaper. Now Den always struck me as a down-to-earth, soft-spoken man of integrity but I was always curious as to whether that was a staged photo or if it really happened. More out of politeness than anything I never did ask Den though – maybe we want to or have to believe in heroes. Captain Phil affirmed that it most certainly did occur as Den had said for claims of false valor are not looked upon favorably in the military.

We talked baseball, not that I’m a baseball fan by any means. The last baseball game I attended, some 30 years ago, I fell asleep during the 5th inning and felt I had a better time than those who stayed awake. But in Chicago, baseball conversation often revolves around the merits of Wrigley Field, home of the north side Chicago Cubs, and Comiskey Park, stadium for the south side Chicago White Sox. We agreed that Jack Brickhouse, predecessor of the better known Harry Caray, was actually a far superior sportscaster.

Now during all this discourse, Captain Phil was schmoozing the cabin crew who congregated right behind us in the galley. I began to see why he liked that row if he couldn’t fly in first class. First off, he was “one of them”, someone who could relate to the events and challenges that the crew had to deal with during their, sometimes very long, work shift. They appreciated the gift of chocolate, or more precisely, the fact that someone would be considerate enough to acknowledge them and the work they do. They also enjoyed the brief, jovial, and sometimes playful conversations and suggestive quips instead of having to constantly deal with problems and oddball requests.

And the crew showed their appreciation to not only Captain Phil, but also to me. Because Captain Phil was a good guy and we were engaged in a spirited conversation, I was also a good guy. Guilt by association. For 10-plus hours, I was one of “them”. 

During the beverage service, the attendants gave us several minis of spirits – vodka for Captain Phil, scotch for me. They were flirtatious. At one point I was feeling a bit dehydrated so I asked a flight attendant, an attractive blonde, for some water. She immediately whipped a small bottle out of her apron and handed it to me. I said, “Wow, you’re really on top of things.” She gave me a sly grin and a wink and replied, “Yes, I really AM on top of things . . .”

Before dinner service, the purser came by and said he had something special for us. While the rest of the cabin was deciding on pasta or chicken and then wrestling with getting their plastic utensils out of their hermetically sealed pouches, Captain Phil and I dined on bleu cheese and breadcrumb encrusted steak, a freshly tossed salad, and some nicely seasoned potatoes, all served on ceramic dishes with cloth napkins and metal utensils. And before we could empty our wine glasses (glass, not plastic) another bottle would appear. A couple of mini Grand Marniers topped off the meal nicely.  It was a first class meal.

After the meal service was cleaned up, the cabin lights were dimmed and people settled in to watch their movies, read, or to drift off to sleep. But for Captain Phil, the conversation/monologue continued – non-stop. We’re both Catholics so religion, one of those topics usually best left unspoken, was fair game. Captain Phil is far more devout than me. He is active in his church, attends mass weekly, and even makes Confession every 3 months – he contended if you have to go to Confession more frequently than that you’re doing something wrong. He’s got a point on that.

After hearing several stories of priests and confessions and of other things Catholic, I mentioned that during the brief times I’ve spent in the Middle East, one of the things I admired was the call to prayers five times a day. I found that it served as a poignant reminder of the omnipresence of God throughout the day and it provided a boost to one’s faith. Well, due in part to his military experience and also to his devout Catholic beliefs, that statement struck a chord with Captain Phil - and not in a good way.

He kind of missed the broader point I was making and focused on Islam itself. He started his rebuttal with stating that the origins of the call to prayer five times a day had nothing to do with religion or worship or faith but was attributable to military commanders loyal to Muhammed making sure there were no deserters from their ranks. He went further, stating that Islam is not a “true” religion but a spiritualized code of military conduct. He bolstered his position by noting that Muhammad spread his religion through military conquest, not by peace and love. He quoted, or mis-quoted, or took out of context, the often-heard Quran verse commanding true believers to kill infidels, or non-believers, or idolaters. He rhetorically and sarcastically asked if I’d heard of the great military battles won by Jesus Christ, or of the legendary conquests of Confucius, maybe I’m familiar with the many victories of Lao Tzu. This was not a debate I wished to engage in, especially in public, so I just listened patiently and more quietly until he moved on to other topics.

Somewhere during hours 5 and 6 in the flight, my neck and shoulders were starting to ache from turning to the right to more easily converse with Captain Phil. And still the monologue went on, although by this time Captain Phil sometime lost his train of thought – probably the result of a combination of alcohol wearing off, the late hour, and Captain Phil just running out of stories. The woman sitting directly in front of Captain Phil, she, who had endured his endless stories for nearly six hours now, and who was probably trying to get some sleep, finally lost it. She spun around, kneeled on her seat so she was eye-to-eye with Captain Phil, and in a low and vicious voice snarled, “Shut up! Just . . . shut . . . up!”

Captain Phil apologized to her and after she let her icy glare linger in the air for a few seconds she turned around and sat down for the remainder of the flight. As for Captain Phil, he did not shut up, but he did lower his voice considerably. After 20 minutes or so, out of consideration for our neighbors and because I too was getting sleepy, I informed Captain Phil that I had to shut my eyes for a little while. After a brief nap, I glanced to my right and Captain Phil was sitting there with his head tilted slightly forward, gently snoring. He remained that way for the duration of the flight.

The plane landed in Houston without event, although there was some fanfare. The cabin erupted in applause on every flight I was on in Argentina and you could tell there were more than a few Argentinians on the flight. I settled in to the United Airlines lounge at George Bush airport to have some breakfast and notify loved ones that I was back in the United States as I waited for the final flight of the journey. 

The flight to Phoenix I didn’t even recall, other than me picking up my checked bags, one of which was mutilated beyond repair – fortunately, nothing inside was damaged. United Airlines though stood up, accepted responsibility, and gave me a new suitcase on the spot. They have shown me they continue to up their customer service post-Covid and I’ll continue flying with them.

My long-time friend, Jacki, picked me up at the airport and brought be back to my truck which she kindly let me park at her house while I was gone. I was still nearly 3 hours from my home in Oracle, Arizona but my Antarctic adventure was over.

Other than the raw beauty of Antarctica itself, one of the things that stands out for me on this trip was the diversity of both the travelers and the staff on the Ocean Endeavour. The ages ranged from late 20s to the 80s – people fulfilling their dreams and quest for adventure. The passengers largely segregated into groups around their age but there were some who easily traversed those age differences and I have great admiration and respect for them. Their openness to move beyond those boundaries of age and time have hopefully enriched their lives in unforeseen ways, just as they have enriched mine. I appreciate them and I sincerely thank them.

And the solo women travelers, of which there were many, I think fared better than their male counterparts, of which I was one. They coalesced into small social groups and were some of the more raucous on the ship whereas the solo men tended to go off by themselves, much like old buffalo who wander off on their own and graze away from the rest of the herd. There’s something of value to be learned there.

But the focus of this trip was Antarctica and I've forged a connection to this place and I believe it will grow stronger.  I'll be back.