YOU WOULDN'T THINK YOU COULD BLOW AN ENTRANCE ON A CAMEL, but that's what happened when Richard C. Wiese, president of the Explorers Club, made his way into the organization's 2006 annual dinner, bumping and grinding right across the floor of the Waldorf-Astoria's crowded ballroom. It was a frightening sight: not the camel, but the way almost none of the 1,350 guests even looked up. Tough crowd.

The assembled dignitaries on this icy night in March, dressed in white tie or ball gowns, included the cream of the world's adventure crop: Ed Viesturs, Sylvia Earle, Buzz Aldrin, along with dozens of other big names in science and exploration, and more than a thousand wannabes, all of whom packed into New York's most aristocratic hotel to celebrate discovery in a lofty, almost 19th-century atmosphere.

Venerable and slightly irrelevant, the Explorers Club is a Manhattan-based institution with global reach, founded in 1904 to promote exploration in any way possible, which these days means doling out small grants, aiding some explorers with PR, hosting public lectures and events, and toasting heroes at alcohol-soaked banquets like this one. Virtually every major adventurer of the past 100 years has been a member, from polar pioneers Shackleton and Byrd to mountaineers Hillary and Messner to researchers Leakey, Goodall, and Schaller. The club's more sedentary legion is made up of deep-pocketed enthusiasts and ambitious amateurs. Admission requires a background in legitimate field science or expeditions and nomination by two established members.

By definition, everyone at the Explorers Club has a story to tell, and tonight is when they tell it. By tradition, dinner starts late and features exotic animals and bizarre stunts. (In 2002, Wiese rode in on a white horse, which pooped on Sir Edmund Hillary's plate.) Flicking the ballroom lights on and off had no effect on the hubbub. The arrival of a Scottish pipe band was largely ignored, as was this year's parade of showstopping creatures, which included a gyrfalcon, a huge owl, and a nervous llama. Then came Wiese on his camel, pinned in the crossbeams of twin spotlights, his image carried on three overhead video screens as he tossed red carnations from atop the high hump. One landed on the head of a woman—who plucked it off and kept right on talking.

Maybe the penis was to blame. We'd started the night at a cocktail reception next door, munching dare-you-to-eat-it appetizers like teriyaki rattlesnake (tough), toasted crickets (scrumptious), kangaroo testicles in French gravy (I didn't), something euphemistically labeled "optic globular capsules" (ibid.), deep-fried tarantula (nope), and bovine penis in sweet-and-sour sauce.

Advised that the bull unit was "very tender," I bit off more than I could chew. Bland and gooey, the meat glued itself to my teeth. I tried washing it down with pinot grigio. (Note to vintner Redwood Creek: Your wine goes great with pecker.) An hour later, as Wiese seized the microphone and urged everyone to sit down, I was still cleaning my teeth of the boogery remains.

The rest of the evening went down a bit better. Amid stirring images of Arctic explorers and atmospheric pioneers, oceanographer Sylvia Earle delivered a bang-up speech touting the salt-watery future of discovery. There was a film tribute to the 51 club members felled by Father Time in the past year. Then Buzz Aldrin rattled off a trillion-dollar list of future space missions that he'd like to see. J. Michael Fay, whose 2002 Megatransect trek across Africa galvanized interest in preserving the continent's rainforest, drew the evening's biggest laugh by admitting that, earlier in the day, he'd needed help from Explorers Club staff to navigate the suit department at Filene's Basement.

It's hard to shine in such company, and, as host, Wiese didn't. He punted a few jokes. He awkwardly quizzed the audience about how long it had been since they last saw his co-host, Jim Fowler, of Wild Kingdom fame. Other stunts just seemed pointless. When March of the Penguins director Luc Jacquet was honored, Wiese led four jackass penguins onto the stage.

"Richard, what kind of penguins are those?" Fowler asked.

"Well," Wiese replied, "I'd have to be a jackass not to know!"

"He is a jackass," a tuxedoed man behind me muttered.

Wiese forged on, urging Jacquet to translate the bird's trilling. "I only speak Emperor," the Frenchman coolly replied. He wasn't playing along.

Wiese sent the penguins packing. A journalist at my table looked up and said, "Wow. What a doofus."