Nice Night for a Ride

Ross Island, Antarctica


A perfectly still night on the eve of a holiday weekend proved the perfect opportunity for an evening skidoo ride.  

Little Loathsome Bean

McMurdo Station, Antarctica

I have never met a green bean that I liked. There was one sunny afternoon when I wandered through a community garden with a preschooler on my heels and we picked fresh green beans from the vine. I munched on one of those, and found it to be not altogether unpleasant. I have also been known to tolerate green beans buried in cream of mushroom soup and topped with crispy fried onions, but I think that is where my appreciation for green beans ends.

The only vegetable I find more loathsome than the lowly green bean is the green pepper. I have very strong feelings about green peppers, and they are not the warm, fuzzy sort of feelings. I truly believe that the world would be a better place without green peppers. I think that they tarnish everything they touch so that any dish that has ever contained green peppers, even if the peppers have been removed, is pretty much ruined. Red, yellow, purple peppers? Bring ‘em on. Chiles, Jalapenos, Banana peppers, and even Habaneros have all made appearances in my kitchens over the years. But green bell peppers have no place in my life.

I am not a vegetable hater. I have a longstanding love affair with Kale and a lingering childhood love of carrots. I’ll eat a whole plate of roasted parsnips and potatoes, and my favorite thing about the holidays is the fresh asparagus that’s flown in. In the summertime, I subsist mostly on leafy greens and homegrown tomatoes, along with the wealth of seasonal fruit. But my love of all things crisp and homegrown simply does not extend to green peppers and green beans.

It’s a bit of a wonder then, that I found myself scooping heaping spoonfuls of green beans onto my plate of curry at lunch. The truth is, I am desperate for vegetables. The spike in population and the decrease in flights has meant a significant decrease in the per capita vegetable availability, here in this barren, soil-less place. Freshies (our beloved New Zealand produce, eggs, and dairy) seem scarce these days, making their appearance primarily in the deli and on the egg grill. Four months into my stay here in the Southernmost reaches of the planet, I am growing bored of the food and dreamy about vegetables. My desperation for something that remotely resembles something that once came out of a garden is apparent in every scoop of green beans. 

Merry Christmas

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

It is Monday morning and I am nursing a cup of strong coffee, struggling to pay attention to another safety meeting that has little to do with my job, and skirting any real issues that plague the station. It is another start to a work week like any other. Christmas has come and gone at McMurdo. Meanwhile, 12,000 miles away, on the other side of the International Date Line, my niece and nephew are swimming in an ocean of wrapping paper, no doubt giddy over the heaps of goodies Santa has left under the Christmas tree.

The holiday season lasts less than week here, and our time off of work is a mere two days- an average weekend in the states, but twice the weekly days off we usually get. It is true that just shortly after thanksgiving the lineman are seen bolting wooden Christmas decorations to the power poles, but aside from that, there is little sign of the coming holiday until a few days before Christmas, when the Waste Management department drags their equipment out of their oversized, dilapidated Quonset hut, and erects a stage for the annual acoustic Christmas show. Oversized pieces of salvaged cardboard line the walls and spray painted with snowflakes and Christmas trees.  Rows of old couches and chairs are set up, and in the front, at the foot of the stage, crazy creek chairs borrowed from the field center are strewn about a carpet of cardboard, protecting the floor-sitters from the decades of stale beer and rotting food juice that line the floor. On Wednesday, I crowded in among friends with whom I have celebrated the last several Christmases, in awe, as always, of the incredible musical talent that seems to accumulate at the bottom of the world. 

The work week officially ended on Friday afternoon, with a white elephant gift exchange. Friday night was the annual town holiday party, in a venue not much fancier than the waste barn. This time the Vehicle Maintenance Facility plays host to the large gathering. Vehicles and hoists were cleared out, in their place, a stage, a bar, and a few clusters of couches. The choir started that evening off with Christmas carols. In one corner, a small line formed to take pictures with Santa who looked suspiciously like one of the IT guys. Tables were scattered about with Christmas cookies and hors d’oeuvres, and on one wall a projector played a slideshow of family pictures contributed by community members. The slideshow was inevitably made up mostly of dogs and children, with a smattering of tropical vacation scenes, hiking snapshots, and photos of family gatherings back home.

The highlight of my holiday weekend, however, was sleeping past 10 am two days in a row! It has been weeks since I have felt remotely well rested. Work days drag into the evening, and I often skate into the galley for dinner mere minutes before it closes. I look at the date on my last post and am shocked to see that it was thanksgiving weekend when I last wrote. I have thought often of writing, about the craft fair and the amazing artistic talent here, or the long awaited decision on a new contractor for the next ten years, or the latest developments with the melting ice pier. But best intentions have fallen flat, plowed under by exhaustion and more pressing needs. Here’s hoping for a January that is calmer and quieter, and allows for a bit more breathing room, and things like writing and running and hiking, favorites largely absent from December.

Science is Ruining the View

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

After a week of dismal weather, Saturday morning dawned clear and bright. Thanksgiving day in Antarctica, Saturday’s beautiful weather came paired with a day free from work. After a leisurely morning of coffee, a movie, and some bookbinding, I pulled on wind pants over my long johns, grabbed my sunglasses and gator and headed out the door. After only a few hours of sun, the ice had melted from the gravel patch that is “town,” leaving slushy mud puddles. My moosehide and canvas mukklukks are no match for the pools of icey water, but I knew a little higher on the ridge above town, I would be knee deep in snow.

The Hut Ridge trail is one of five trails from station on which we are permitted to travel freely, though I have to admit I have taken advantage of that less this year than in the past. Best intentions of going hiking or skiing have been trumped by extended work days, assorted projects, social engagements, and sheer exhaustion.

 Among the trails offered, Castle Rock may be the best in terms of actual hiking, and getting away from station and feeling any sense of being in Antarctica. But at 4-6 hours, it requires more time than I often have. Hut Ridge, on the other hand, is just over an hour. It is particularly lovely come late December when open water is visible on the horizon, and the icebreaker starts making its way into station.

Past the Vehicle Maintenance Facility, the Waste barn, two cargo yards, and an assortment of pieces and implements for heavy machinery, the road climbs up towards Arrival Heights. The trail to Castle Rock falls off to the right, and farther up the hill, the Hut Ridge trail veers left, marked by homemade bamboo and vinyl trail markers.

This particular trail was a new route the first season I was at McMurdo, back in 2005. It quickly became my favorite, for its rolling terrain, panoramic views, and accessibility. I worked in the galley that season, and lived in the same building in which I worked so it was easy to go through a whole day without setting foot outside, aside from perhaps taking out the trash. Having come to Antarctica for the wonder of it, I made a point to go for a walk nearly every day, and Hut Ridge was typically at the top of my list. About 15 minutes into the walk, the path dips into a snowy valley, dropping out of sight of station, and Arrival Heights and all of its antennae and satellite dishes are not yet in view. For a few hundred feet, not a single man-made structure was in sight, and for a moment, I would pause and gaze out over the Royal Society Mountain Range looming in the distance across the sound and remember my geography and the awe that brought me here in the first place, appreciate the beauty that is typically buried somewhere under the peeling paint of 50 year old buildings, and the labyrinth of pipes and power lines.

Though the trail follows the same path it has for the last six years, a few things have changed. Another satellite dish has been installed, and a whole field of poles and antennae has been installed in the snowy valley that was once reserved for my Antarctica appreciation moments. I have no idea what SuperDARN is, or what its creators are measuring. What I do know is that the forest of metal is ruining the view. 

I grumbled a little as I walked by, no longer lingering between the hills, and then proceeded to crest the next hill where a small field of shipping containers comes into view, and out on the ice shelf, the runway appears. A thin line runs North, the sea ice road traversed by Pisten Bullys, Hagglunds, and snowmobiles- primarily scientists headed out to sites of interest, diving, drilling, or tagging seals. Open water is not yet visible, though a layer of pink fog hanging over the horizon suggests it isn’t far.

A few hundred meters more and I reached the top of the ridge. The breeze is significantly stronger up here, and I pulled my gator up over my cheeks. No matter how lovely the weather, I doubt the air is ever still up here, and the constant motion of a trio of wind turbines on an opposing ridge stand in tribute to this.

As I descended toward Roll Cage Mary, a tribute to one of the many unfortunate souls who have lost their lives on this continent, this one in a tractor (hence the roll cage), I heard the familiar thwump thwump thwump of a helicopter. Surprised to hear anything flying on Thanksgiving, I scanned the sky for the craft. As it came into view, it was clearly not one of our helicopters, and neither was it the Italian helicopter that often lands here transporting passengers to Mario Zuchelli Station, the nearby Italian base. The only other possibility are the wealthy tourists aboard the Russian cruise ship, the Khlebnikov. The tourists typically arrive on station for a short tour of town, and the obligatory stop at the station store. Yesterday, however, the NSF (National Science Foundation) declared station closed for the holiday, and limited their visit to the historic hut on the peninsula. I am thankful that our day off was to be devoid of the photo-snapping tourists, that our secluded enclave will not be pierced today by strangers ogling our daily existence.

The trail descends to meet the road, and there the mud puddles reappear. Up the hill, and back to the bustle of town, I headed home with my now wet boots and rosy cheeks.  

Deep Field Logistics

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

As big fat flakes fall lazily from the sky, I wonder if tomorrow’s planes will be able to take off for the deep field. Another 20,000 lbs of cargo is set to fly to Byrd Surface camp, up on the polar plateau. My job is to make sure that the heaps of stuff sitting in the cargo yard make it out to the field camps in time. The challenge, as always, is weather. Byrd Camp, operational off and on since the 60’s, was delayed in opening for the season due to weather, and the ongoing weather and equipment issues have meant a constant shuffle of cargo, adding and subtracting cargo to each flight to try to get needed materials out to camp in the right order. (The boxes of frozen food became suddenly more important when I realized they contain the thanksgiving turkeys). Each plane that flies from McMurdo to the deep field is limited in both space and weight capacity, and I’m the one who sifts through pages of spreadsheets, piecing together a puzzle of crates and boxes and the occasional vehicle until everything has its place, and then pass off the task of physically arranging it all to an incredible team of cargo handlers who work their magic, cramming more onto each pallet than one might think possible.

This year a traverse will leave from Byrd hauling all of the materials and science equipment to build a field camp on the Pine Island Glacier, the fastest moving ice flow in the world. But in order for the traverse crew to pull out, the cargo first has to get there. If the weather holds, there will be six LC-130 flights in the next four days, hauling 100,000 pounds of cargo, along with a dozen passengers.

As another Sunday ends all too quickly, I take a deep breath and get ready to buckle down for my busiest weeks yet. 

Surprise! It's Antarctica

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

Last night, I grabbed dinner on my way home from a long day at work and slumped into a chair and flipped on the news. The weather report comes on predicting another clear day, and reporting temperatures at the South Pole of -23. It is a daily ritual in which countless people partake. Right up until that whole South Pole weather part.

Life in Antarctica conjures up images of penguins clustered in blizzards and early polar explorers man-hauling sleds over sastrugi with their heads hung low in the blinding snow. The truth is, I sleep in a dorm with my window open because of an overzealous boiler. It is not unusual to see people wearing shorts on a Sunday. I work in an office that looks like it could be anywhere- harsh fluorescent bulbs and a drop ceiling with those terrible dappled white tiles. Sometimes I wish I had galoshes for dodging the summer mud puddles. When I need to haul boxes across town, I hop in a Ford F-350 pickup and drive over gravel roads to get there. I have been on a snowmobile a total of five times in the last six years. I only wear my big red parka on the flight to and from the continent. I gave up goggles months ago. It is Saturday night, and I will go to a dinner party, possibly stop by the local bar to enjoy some live music, or maybe grab a movie with friends. Tomorrow I will enjoy my one day weekend, sleeping in and staying up too late, and then regretting that Monday morning when I drag myself back to work. It's not quite the intrigue and adventure one might imagine my Antarctic life to be.

Recycling

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

McMurdo is often touted as having the highest per capita fuel consumption on the planet. The fact that there as an entire town at the bottom of the world being run on diesel generators, with our yearly supply of goods arriving from the other hemisphere via boat and plane, is not exactly a point of pride. McMurdo has a couple of redeeming qualities, though. Thanks the efforts of our Kiwi neighbors, we now boast the southernmost wind farm, though it is sadly small at just three turbines. But at least it's a start.

McMurdo also recycles upwards of 70% of all of our waste, 100% of which is shipped off the continent. I can't imagine there are many cities in the U.S. that touch that rate of recycling. With dozens of categories of waste, it means taking out the trash is no quick task. Several kinds metal are separated, in addition to plastic, glass, food waste, and mixed paper among them. The array of dumpsters around town is staggering. This line of dumpsters is outside the Carpenters' Shop.

Oh wait, what's that red one say, you ask? Does that say "meat" ?

Why yes, yes it does.

No, we don't actually recycle our meat. This particular dumpster arrived one day along with the likes of glitter, dreams, romance novels, and ninja masks. It would seem that the waste crew has a sense of humor.

The Blur

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

At 3 am this morning, I woke to the howling wind, the breeze kicking up the wool blanket covering my window, bringing in bursts of sunlight. I burrowed under a pillow and drifted off to sleep again. When at 6:30, I peeled myself from my bed, I opted for my mukklukks, knowing that the night wind would have made the snow-packed paths icey and slick. Though this week has been a breezy one, the wind has lost it’s edge. The gusts no longer seem vicious, and on more than one occasion have even felt pleasantly warm, and on one occasion, almost humid.

In a few places, the gravel base has begun to peek through the layers of snow and ice. Summer is surely on it’s way. Life is a bit of a blur here. Long days of work bleed into the evening, followed by a communal dinner and various social engagements. I look up to find that weeks have past, sucked up by the commotion, and yet books sit on the shelf unread, skeins of yarn remain untouched, and various projects lay in various states of meager attempts.

I am stunned to realize that it is already the 9^th of November, that it has been weeks since I last wrote a blog entry, months since I’ve sent emails, longer still since I’ve sent photos or postcards. And yet the season is only just beginning. The field camp season has hardly begun, first flights delayed by burly weather in the deep field. There is much yet to come, and longer days still.

Steam Curls

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

Seven am found me laying on the floor, the steam rising from my body. The chilled, uninsulated floor felt great on my back as I stretched out after my morning workout. I am not, by design, a morning person. I think morning is the worst thing that ever happened to me. Every day. It’s much more amenable when there’s a tent or a porch involved, but there is no worse way to start the day than with a blaring alarm, peeling my sleepy self from the warm sheets. The early morning hours, however, seem to be the only reliable time of day when I know, no matter what, I will find the time to go to the gym.

After a quick stretch, it’s off to the galley to weave through the throngs of people foraging for breakfast among the platters of powdered eggs and precooked bacon. And from there, so starts the often erratic rhythm of my day. 

By lunchtime, our two day streak of fine weather, with calm winds and clear skies, has ended abruptly, replaced now by howling winds and blowing snow. I pause mid-stride when I am caught in a whiteout moment. It only lasts a second, and then the buildings appear, faint though they may be. The wind sweeps across the surface, glossing over our snow-packed roads, turning them into slick skating rinks for loaders and humans alike to glissade across.

The fine gravel spread about town for traction now mixes with the blowing snow so that the wind is not only fierce and icey on my exposed face, but also slightly exfoliating. Now out of the habit of traveling with goggles, I squint and tuck my chin into my chest as I make my way between buildings, thankful that I know these paths by memory and hardly have to look up.

Each time I stepped outside today, the weather had shifted slightly. The walk home from dinner was surprisingly calm, with no limits on visibility, but now laying in my bed at the end of the day, I listen to the winds howl, feel the building shake a bit.

The arrival of summer

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

The ice has finally melted from the inside of my bedroom window, and the darkness has vanished entirely. The first of the summer flights began arriving two weeks ago, and the population here has swelled rapidly. Somewhere between work and projects and social engagements, time has slipped away, as it always does, and suddenly it is mid-October. 


Folks bound for field camps and the South Pole have begun to arrive on station, the helicopters have started flying again, and the traffic on the sea ice road is notable. The consistently clear, bright skies make me a little sad, wistful for the nacreous clouds and gorgeous sunsets of winfly. 


There seem to be hardly enough hours in the day, nor days in the week, to tend to all the projects and obligations, not to mention the constant draw of friends and social engagements. Laundry is heaped on my bed, sewing projects fill an armchair, a wool blanket hangs where a (yet unmade) curtain ought to. My to-do list is ever longer than the hours in a day, and even a rare two day weekend has proved inadequate for conquering all of my best laid plans. And meanwhile the sunny day and warm temps beckon me to come play outside. 

In a Frozen Land

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA


Noses are such delicate things and so unfortunately places in the middle of one's face. Impossible to keep warm and hardly any blood flow to tae care of itself. The wind chill has risen into the -20's, a distinct improvement from Saturday's -87. The warmer air, and calm winds mean that I can walk nearly all the way to work without the ubiquitous gator pulled up to my lower lids. That is, of course, if not for my nose. While it is so lovely to feel fresh air on my face, the cold air nipping lightly at my cheeks, my pathetic little nose screams in pain, demanding that I cover it IMMEDIATELY. 


The cold temperatures spawned optimism that the sea ice would thicken, the cracks cease activity and settle in for a nice polar summer of science. Alas, the sea ice seems to be making a statement, that while we humans think we have all the details worked out on exactly how it will behave, it will do what it damn well pleases, thank you very much. And so, having only recently quelled the panic about potentially not having an icebreaker to support the program (crisis averted), the new drama revolves around whether there will be a sea ice road. Or an ice runway. Or an ice pier. Ah, the precariousness of a life set on frozen water. 

Weather Update

Current Ambient Temperature: -33 Fahrenheit
Current Wind Chill: -69 Fahrenheit

Talking about the Weather

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

Today’s High (Ambient) Temperature: -19 Fahrenheit

Today’s Wind Chill: -38 Fahrenheit

Today’s Clothing: wool socks, long johns, wool t-shirt, polypro long sleeve shirt, hooded sweatshirt, insulated Carhartt overalls,  Steger mukklukks, down parka, 1 windproof gator, 1 fleece gator, wool hat, goggles, wool glove liners, down mittens.

The sky is crisp blue today, not a cloud in sight. These last couple of days have been our brightest yet, the sun having finally having reached a high enough arc in the sky to produce something other than twilight. The wind is relatively calm, and the glaring sunshine gives the illusion of warmth. I assure you though, it is only an illusion. Though today could be construed as a heat wave in comparison to yesterday’s low of -78 Fahrenheit, the wind chill still hovers around -38 F. It takes only a moment or two to rack up a pair of frozen eyelashes, even on the shortest dash between buildings. I take my glove off to untie a stubborn knot and regret the decision almost immediately. It takes less than 30 seconds for my fingers to become completely useless at this temperature. The absurdity of working outside when the temperatures plummet so far below zero hardly strikes me anymore. Sitting around the dinner table at the end of the day yesterday, friends and coworkers talked about the weather, finally admitting, that well, yes, maybe it was a bit chilly, and no wonder we’re all a little cold.

Tomorrow’s high is predicted to be -18 F, with a wind chill of -58F. I must admit that the thought of wearing long johns every day for the next 6 months is not a terribly enticing prospect, but I do look forward to another balmy summer when my layers get a little lighter, and I can ditch the parka in exchange for a down jacket.

Icebergs

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

The temperature has taken a significant dip today, with the wind chill pushing -50 F. The clouds have rolled in, and blowing snow makes it hard to see much beyond the transition to the sea ice. But two days ago, the skies were clear and the ambient temperature hovered near 15 F, and the wind was gentle most of the day. I had the good fortune to find myself in a hagglund out on the sea ice, a few hours from town, helping to scope out cracks and drilling to check the thickness of the ice as we scouted a route to the ice edge.

The morning started off cloudy, but the clouds quickly burned off as the sun rose over Mt. Erebus. The skies cleared, and the sun and shadows made the big drifts and potential cracks easy to spot. After going as far as we could safely travel before the ice thinned out, we turned to head back, finding ourselves with plenty of time to spare, and no imperative to be back in town. We followed the Kiwis’ tracks to see how far they had gotten, and then, parking the hagglund, set out on foot to map out the perimeters of two icebergs locked in the sea ice. The wind had picked up a bit, and I added a heavier coat and mittens to my layers. I looked back to note that the Barne Glacier was swathed in blowing snow, faint and golden in the bright sunlight. 

We walked around the larger of the two icebergs first, stepping over cracks, finding footing between chunks of fallen ice. Cracks in the berg glowed blue in the sun, and the only sound was that of our boots crunching in the snow. 

 Peering into the cracks, I could see the strange patterns that form in the ice, the frozen bubbles, some that are elongated and appear to have frozen while migrating to the surface. There is something about standing at the foot of an iceberg that seems grand and amazing, the stuff of National Geographic films, and the stuff of childhood dreams. I lagged behind examining ice, snapping photos, while my companion walks ahead, GPS in hand. The sky unbelievably blue, we stood for a long time, watching the swirling snow rolling over a small snow bank, glistening slightly in the low late afternoon sun. 

Rounding the second iceberg, I caught a glimpse of a sundog and a nacreous cloud beyond the iceberg, and I am reminded that I live in the most amazing place on the planet. At least it seemed so in that very instant, when I am overwhelmed by the grandeur, and not being eaten alive by the biting wind. As we headed home, the sun sank low behind us, the snow covered peaks glowing pink. Out my window, a nacreous cloud evolved, growing ever more colorful, reminding me of holograms and fish scales and oil slicks in parking lot puddles. I stop once and climb out to look back and see the sun, firey orange, nearly sinking into the horizon. Indeed it was an altogether perfect day. 

Fierce Winds

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

Walking back to work after lunch today, I leaned into the fierce wind, the gusts occasionally ripping open the Velcro on my hood and blowing it off my head. I stopped trying to replace it after the third time it happened. The blowing snow all but obliterated everything around me. I could make out the shadow of each telephone pole, and the vague outline of roof pitches, just enough by which to navigate. Familiarity helps too- I know where each pole sits along the road, to keep the dumpsters on my left, and not to veer right when the poles end. Somewhere in the abyss to my right is a giant snow pile, and beyond that the hill leading up to work.

From the window at work, we watch the power lines whip in the wind, marvel at our inability to see the building immediately below us. Gusts of wind bring the occasional burst of snow in through the gaps in the window, the flakes shimmering in the light. The walls and floor creak in the wind. I much prefer the creaking to some of the other buildings around town that sway. The roaring wind occasionally sounds like thunder. Our noses pressed up against the window glass, warm mugs of tea in hand, my coworkers and I find it hard to feel motivated to return to work.

Listening to the building creak and the pipes gurgle, we swap ghost stories. The building I work in, among others, is said to be haunted, and there are plenty of stories of strange sights and sounds. The gymnasium is said to be haunted by those who died in the 1979 plane crash on nearby Mt. Erebus. Their bodies were brought there before being repatriated to New Zealand. The conversation turns to others who have died here, and what becomes of their remains since there are obviously no morgue facilities here. (The answer involves lab freezers, metal shipping containers, and large boxes). A bit morbid perhaps, but fascinating still.

As I walked home from work, the visibility had improved so that whole buildings were in view, though the wind still howled. Cold air nipped at my cheeks, blowing in through the holes in my goggles. The wind gusting at close to fifty knots left me struggling to keep my feet on the slick compacted snow. Now home, the wind whistles through my drafty window, the gusts thundering through the tunnel created by my and the neighboring building. I love when the weather picks up here, when Antarctica rages fiercely. So many days are docile, and easy to forget of what exactly she is capable.

The things I would write about

 

The Coming Daylight

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

Each morning I wake from a restless sleep, kept awake by the wind howling at my window all night, and stumble out of bed into the cold dark night. As I step out the front door of my dorm, I inhale the sharp cold and join the shadows moving towards the galley for breakfast. I love the darkness. Somehow the world seems quieter and more still in wrapped in the blanket of night. I will miss it dearly when it disappears for good. When I first arrived here two weeks ago, we would arrive at work and wait for the light, often not until 10 am, to do certain outdoor tasks. Now, as I walk to work at 7:30, the sun is already rising, the lavender bleeding up over the hills. 

Flat White

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

The world stretched out around us, white as far as the eye could see, as the Delta rumbled over the snow road. Drifts fresh from the recent storm were invisible in the flat light, rising up to meet us, bogging down the tires of the mammoth cargo vehicle. Nestled in the middle, every few minutes I would scrape the wide windshield, clear it of our frozen breath, the result of a deficient defrost system. The bumpy ride was a little too raucous for a nap, which certainly would have helped pass the time. An hour and a half later, we arrived at the airfield to find the lead Delta knee deep in snow, and our loader filled with snow thanks to a faulty door latch. Nothing to do but start digging. And call in the bigger shovels. I watched one dozer pushing great tidal waves of snow, leaving behind deep swathes in the snow field. There is just so much snow! It is the stuff of childhood dreams. Granted, we are standing on a permanent ice shelf made of compacted snow, but a couple of stormy days have left great heaps of dry Styrofoam snow. Walking across the vast white, it is nearly impossible to perceive depth, so that I occasionally step off the edge of a ridge before I’ve seen it, struggling to keep my feet firmly planted.

 While we worked at digging out vehicles and sleds, and transferring cargo, the sun sank into the space between the thick cloud cover and the horizon. The apricot sun seemed to be bursting the seams of the sky, the light stretching out from the firey orb to the mountains across the sound. Behind me, Black Island glowed pink in the late afternoon light. The sun would linger just above the horizon, backlighting the Transantarctic Mountains with warm orange light, while the rest of the sky grew duskier. I could pick out the headlights of distant machines working the runway, trying desperately to clear it for the next plane.

In the Dark of Night

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

I have spent hours driving a loader. I have moved thousands of pallets, unloaded and loaded at least a hundred planes. I climb into the machines and change gears, turn on lights, adjust heaters, move the forks, without much thought. If you had asked me, I would have told you that I could do it all with my eyes closed. Until last night.

PHOTO CREDIT: DANIEL SU

Last night was the first flight that I have worked since landing at McMurdo on Saturday, and the first night flight I have ever worked. The use of night vision goggles by the pilots requires that the airfield be completely dark. I climbed into the loader and fumbled with buttons trying to find the switch to turn off the headlights. Once off, the entire field was dark, the only illumination the faint and dying twilight. Creeping towards the staging ground, I watched for the dark shadows of other vehicles, following the road from memory.  The C-17 is not a tiny plane, and usually easy to spot several hundred miles away, but this time, there was no sign of the plane until the whoosh of it approaching directly overhead. It was eerie and bizarre, a dozen pickup trucks, loaders, and emergency vehicles, invisible in the dark waiting for an equally invisible plane. Upon landing, I could barely pick out the single red light on the top of the plane. I watched the light approach, and even as I knew the plane must be turning directly in front of me, the red light was the only thing punctuating the darkness. Finally the call came over the radio to turn on headlights, and even then the plane was hardly discernible.

PHOTO CREDIT: DANIEL SU

The night grew colder, the wind chill dipping into the negative 50’s, leaving me shivering in the unheated loader, and I struggled through the process of transferring pallet after pallet, moving through the darkness based on a combination of memory, landmarks, and hand signals from ground workers.

The darkness crippled me, took away any skill I thought I had. It was an altogether humbling experience.

Returning to the Scene of the Crime

 CHRISTCHURCH, NEW ZEALAND

Walking through Hagley Park this afternoon, I thought of the last time I was here in February. That afternoon, I had walked through the park with 4 others, the panic rising in my chest, wondering about what we would find in town, whether friends and coworkers were all okay. 


Six months later, the park and surrounds are eerily quiet, snow and puddles have replaced the liquefaction. The center of town is fenced off, silent save a few excavators working where buildings once stood. I am surprised to see a vacant lot where an apartment building once stood that had appeared fairly intact when I left. I am pleased to find my favorite breakfast place has reopened, along with the cheese shop, both places that I had visited the morning of the earthquake. The woman who owns the cheese shop even remembered me when I went in today, glad to know that I too had escaped unscathed. 




 From behind a chain link fence, I can see the Grand Chancellor hotel, still leaning on neighboring buildings. With all the continuing aftershocks, it surprises me that it still stands in the same position. Shredded curtains flap in the breeze, dangling out the broken windows of a nameless office building. Walls are missing, publicly exposing previously private bedrooms and bathrooms.  


Standing on the bridge peering through a fence into the hollow city, I am suddenly very sad. From where I stand, I can see the battered remains of so many familiar places. Around the bend, I can pick out the pieces of the building of the restaurant where I celebrated my 30th birthday. This place is more than just some random city to me. It carries the nostalgia of home, and I do believe a little bit of my heart is here. And I do believe that little bit of my heart is bruised and battered. It is the first time I have felt truly sad about  what has happened here, something other than the fear and anxiety that overwhelmed me in February. 

Travel Weary

FLYING OVER COOK STRAIT, NEW ZEALAND

I am pondering whether chloroform shouldn’t be a requirement on any plane carrying small children.

I love children. But I love them quite a bit less on an airplane in my 32^nd hour of air travel. Three airports, two long flights, 32 hours and one passport stamp into my journey, I find myself crammed into the tiny seat of a budget airline in a row with two adults and an 18 month old toddler who is clearly not very happy to be stuck on a plane. I don’t blame the mother for her child’s impatience and frustration. But I do blame the mother for bringing a toddler onto an airplane where her newfound mobility will be severely restricted, and not bringing a single toy, book, or snack to occupy the little one.

Neither earplugs nor headphones are drowning out the squealing tot, and I find myself leaning out over the aisle to compensate for the lack of shoulder room. I can feel my already sore back and neck clenching up. I peer down the length of the plane to see many of my fellow travelers doing the same thing.

We touched down in Christchurch this afternoon, our arrival narrated by a three-year-old who exclaimed, “there’s snow! it’s snowing!” It was actually raining when we arrived, although clumps of snow still dotted the grass from this week’s snowstorm.  I dug out a puffy coat and a luxuriously soft purple scarf, a handmade gift that I hadn’t expected to use quite so soon.

Returning to Christchurch is an interesting prospect. I left here 6 months ago on a humanitarian airlift after a 6.3 earthquake shook the city. The city had hardly stopped smoking, and certainly hadn’t stopped shaking. I am curious, though a bit anxious, to see the city. This is but a brief stopover on the way to Antarctica, long enough to pick up some cold weather gear and groceries, and get (almost) adjusted to the new time zone, an 18 hour time difference from where I started. 

A little bit of magic

O’HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, CHICAGO, IL

I look up from my book to see that we are flying through clear blue skies, layered between two clouds. For a moment, I feel the extraordinary magic of flying. The magic of course is largely lost, buried somewhere under the digital strip searches and excessive surcharges. But I remember flying as a kid, before cockpits had deadbolts and peepholes, before you had to undress in order to get on a plane. Back then there was some sort of simple wonder in flying above familiar buildings, the aqua blue swimming pools dotting the landscape, and the feeling of swimming through a marshmallow. I remember flying through a thunderstorm on one solo trip in high school. It was amazing and terrifying and wonderful.  Flying on a plane was an adventure, and until I was too cool to care about such things, I loved the part of the flight when the flight attendant would fetch us young’uns and we would march up the aisle to the cockpit to meet the pilots, and ogle the myriad of buttons and flashing lights, and get a set of wings (the plastic pin-on variety, of course).

I love the adventure of new places, and though I’m not always convinced I chose this life, it is the only one I can imagine living, where the possibility of somewhere new, whether Montana or Mongolia, is always looming on the horizon. And flying is part of that, being able to get on a plane, and a movie and a bag of peanuts later, wake up in a different climate in a different time zone. But somewhere in the last decade, the flying part has become less adventure and more headache. I seldom get through an airport without a spike in blood pressure, ever infuriated by the public undressing (I swear this is the only country in the world where you have to remove clothing to get on a plane), the accusatory questions about knitting needles and hard drives, the confiscation of peanut butter because when it’s on bread it’s okay but when it’s in a jar it’s a public safety issue. Long layovers, canceled flights, lost luggage, the disappearance of meals, the hundred dollar bag fees- it’s all such a disappointment.

But then every now and then, with my long legs wedged into the tiny leather seat of an Embraer jet, my shoes and belt and sweater back on, my potentially fatal liquids packed in their tiny bottles, I peer out the window to find just a glimpse of the magic.

I imagine the magic will be short lived. The short hop from Cincinnati to Chicago was just the first hour of the 28 that I will spend on an airplane this week, with another 18 spent in airports waiting between flights. Frequent flyer miles are small consolation for the long trek back to work.  

Changing Seasons in the Blink of an Eye

CINCINNATI, OHIO


The sounds of summer waft in through the windows, open for the first time in months, thanks to a cool front that has finally dropped the temperature below 90, and most importantly, dropped the humidity to lower than a swimming pool. As I listen to the din of locusts and the chirping birds, I sit with a down coat draped over my lap. The sweat pools in the back of my knees as I painstakingly rip out a seam for the fourth time, cursing under my breath. I am replacing a zipper in my work coat, which I will likely be wearing in about 10 days. It is a bizarre thought, to be currently daydreaming about swimming pools but to know that in less than two weeks, my eyelashes will be covered in ice crystals, my breath frozen to a gator pulled up over my face. 


The change of seasons is always abrupt for me, moving from one to another in the span of a flight, without the gradual shifting of light and breeze and temperatures. But somehow, my typical departure in October is a little bit less of a shock to the system. By the time I leave the states, the air is turning crisp, the leaves have hinted at the colors to come, and apples are in season. I've even managed to can apple butter and applesauce before going, in seasons past. That of course, makes it extra torturous to leave- fall is my favorite season, and largely absent from my life for far too many years now. But at least moving from fall to winter seems natural. The sweltering heat of August to the icey dark of Antarctica just waking up from her winter, is a whole other story. There is of course, absolutely no way to prepare myself for the sudden temperature drop. At some point in the journey south, I will trade my sandals for sneakers, and ultimately for big ol' boots. Tank tops will give way to long sleeves, and the tan of my summer skin will fade into pale, pasty white. Hot salty skin will be but a memory buried under half a dozen layers of clothing. 

Furniture and Icebreakers, or the lackthereof

CINCINNATI, OH

It turns out you should not wait 5 years to upgrade the operating system on your laptop. 

While waiting for my computer to be brought into the modern era, I wandered the mall, finding myself in stores I seldom visit. In Renovations Hardware, I admired a desk made of riveted metal, made to look like a part of an airplane. One of the staff came over to tell me about their current sales, and pointed out that much of the display furniture is half off, and a great opportunity to pick up a few pieces. I thanked her for the information and meandered towards the back of the store. As I walked away, I thought, "well, thanks for thinking I'm actually together enough to own a house, and have enough money to drop a grand on a dining room chair." Of course that couldn't be farther from the truth. 

I don't exactly live paycheck to paycheck.....it's more like season to season. I work ungodly amounts of hours for six months, and then spend the rest of the year spending all of my income. Yes, of course, working in my off-season would be a better choice, but the world hasn't exactly smiled on me in recent years in terms of being paid to do meaningful or enjoyable work. So instead I do that work for free. Last year, I spent my summer with Solar Energy International, learning heaps about renewable energy of all sorts, and this year I spent my summer with Red Feather, building a straw bale house. It's not a bad arrangement, though it certainly leaves me in the position of desperately needing to get back to work come August. 

The guillotine of program cuts hangs over my head, threatening to take my job with the U.S. Antarctic Program away. I am of course completely powerless to do anything about the situation other than curse the powers-that-be that failed to come up with a backup plan for the most important part of the program. Good, bad, or ugly, a fuel tanker is our lifeline at the bottom of the world, and if said tanker cannot get into station because there is no icebreaker to clear the way, well, that presents a bit of a problem for life at the bottom of the world. 

So I'm crossing my fingers, hoping for the best, while mentally preparing for the worst. In addition to doing laundry, repairing my winter coat, and packing, my to-do list also includes updating my resume. Just in case. 

All Grown Up

CINCINNATI, OH


I awoke to the rumbling thunder in the early morning hours, just before the sun should have risen if not for the dark gray thunder clouds. I drifted in and out of sleep while the lightning flashed and the thunder boomed. The intense thunderstorms have been a dime a dozen in the past couple weeks, but what I find quite pleasant about this early wakeup, is that I'm the only one waking up. Last week, while in Chicago staying with my niece and nephew, the nightly thunderstorms kept everyone from sleeping. One loud crack would have my niece flying out of bed into the arms of the nearest grown-up, and while my tiny nephew didn't know enough to be afraid of the storms, he certainly wasn't sleeping through them. 


One night, I laid in my niece's bed with her, fending off terror. As I lay awake, unaccustomed to sleeping with three night lights and bedtime music, I thought to myself, "this definitely makes me a grown-up." When the first of my peers bought a house, I remember talking about at what point one really becomes a grown-up. Surely it is hardly age, in this era of prolonged adolescence that stretches through college. For the overwhelming majority of us who aren't having offspring in our teens and twenties, that surely isn't it either. When Taryn moved into her house, we figured it was owning a lawnmower or major appliances that signaled true grown-up-hood. But as I watch this little person drift in and out of sleep, one paw slung across my chest, the other gripping a stuffed cow, I decide that when you reach the point of being able to slay the nighttime demons, be they thunderstorms or monsters, that's when you know you're a grown-up. 

Wee Royalty

CHICAGO, IL

By 9 am the heat is stifling. An early morning trip to the park leaves both my niece and I dripping in sweat, and wilting in the heat. She has the advantage of catching a ride on the way home. I have the, um, advantage of carrying a 30 lb. human furnace on my back. It certainly is limiting our daily adventures. 


Instead there's been a lot of reading, a smattering of glitter, a wee bit of baking, and a whole lot of hair clips. I am informed that princesses wear LOTS of hair clips. The wee royalty sorted through her clips, pulling out the ones that met some mysterious criteria. The criteria definitely included pink and purple, though not ALL of the purple clips made the cut. There were a few blue and green ones, and surprisingly a yellow one in spite of earlier disdain for the color. I secure the last of her eleven hair clips, and she bounds off in search of her mom-made tutu and wings. 

Eating Local

CHICAGO, IL

I was delighted to arrive in Northern Wisconsin just in time for strawberry season, a full month later than any place I've ever lived. Strawberries are one of those early crops with relatively short harvests that I seem to often miss, along with asparagus, and most unfortunately, rhubarb. I found these berries at a local market, though they came from an organic farm just up the road. 


I find nothing more pleasing than eating fresh food, grown with care, near the place where it was grown. In an ideal world, my food would come from my garden, and a local farmer's markets, with a few exceptions- spices, oils, coffee, and chocolate. And maybe avocados. I'd have a REALLY hard time giving up avocados. But I'd also have a REALLY hard time living in a tropical climate. 


There are a few problems that I've run into in recent years when it comes to eating: It's hard to eat local when you don't have a locale. And it's even harder to eat homegrown when you don't have a home. 


A few years ago, I spent 4 1/2 months on a road trip throughout the U.S. I diligently looked up farmer's markets and co-ops, trying to find places along our route to stock up on local, responsibly grown food. Inevitably we'd end up in the wrong town on the wrong day, or the town with the farmer's market would be hundreds of miles off our planned route. We once detoured a few dozen miles to stop in Vermillion, SD, for some free camping and the weekly farmer's market. While the camping was indeed free (love South Dakota city parks!), the farmer's market consisted of radishes, lemon balm, and potted plants. When it came to grocery shopping, I would love to have always shopped at a locally owned store, whether a co-op, or even a locally owned franchise. But it was impossible to know where we might stumble upon such places, as they are sadly rare. I shopped at Wal-Mart more that summer than ever before in my life and certainly ever since. We'd be out of food, and end up in a town largely shuttered with Wal-Mart as the only grocery option. So I'd set aside all my ethics for the sake of dinner, but then two towns down, now well stocked with cheap food from afar, there would be the sort of store I had been hoping for. Or a market or fruit stand that I hadn't known about. It was frustrating and challenging, and I continue to face the same problem wherever I go, whether abroad or here in the states. When I'm only passing through, and it seems I'm only ever passing through, it is hard to know where to find good food, and harder still to know who grew it and in what setting. 

When I do stumble upon local, organic food, like these ruby berries, it feels like such a treasure. I just wish it were easier to make this a regular occurrence.