CINCINNATI, OHIO
After 38 hours in transit, I finally arrived at my mom's house, one of several of my caches of personal belongings. It's a process that makes my mind swirl, really- the date doesn't change thanks to the international date line, but the hours do. I change my watch each time we land , as the flight attendant announces local time. I pay little attention to the temperature announcement, because no matter the weather, I will spend my time cooped up in the recirculated air of yet another airport. Each time we land, I briefly scan my memory for images from each particular airport, trying to remember where the decent food is, and how far I might need to dash for my next plane. I will need to change money in Sydney to buy dinner, and clear customs in LA. Once I get back to the states, I can recharge the cell phone that's lain dormant these last 5 months, and hope that it still works so that I can call for a ride at my final destination. At one airport, I stopped in a shop to buy an apple and a bag of pretzels and was momentarily baffled at the basket of shamrock cookies on the counter. It took several minutes to work through to the fact that it is the eve of March, and St. Patrick's day is ahead. In 5 days time, I have been in the blustery winds of Antarctica, landed in New Zealand on an 85 degree summer evening, and spent much of the week in a cold drizzly rain, so distracted by an earthquake that I couldn't tell you what day it was, let alone what season. When I finally stepped off a plane for good, my sandaled feet were cold, and the chilly night air made me wish I had a coat with me. Along the drive home, leafless trees and leftover holiday banners reminded me that spring is still a long ways off here in the midwest. I'll figure it out eventually, I supposed.
I'm not quite sleeping yet (I have no idea what time zone I'm in) and I have to consciously think about what sort of clothing to wear, but at least I am relatively certain that the earth here will sit still, and I've stopped jumping at every loud rumbling noise. By the sixth airplane, I wasn't even clutching the armrests on rough landings. So with that peace of mind, I have turned my attention to things of somewhat lesser importance: what to wear, for example.
I always imagine that most people return home from a trip, unpack their suitcase, perhaps do a load of laundry, catch up on their mail, and then more or less return to some typical routine. How lovely that would be.
Tonight, two nights after arriving, I was to join some of my extended family to celebrate my mom's upcoming birthday at a slightly-fancier-than-casual restaurant that ruled out the patched jeans that I have spent the week in. I unpacked my luggage to find roughly a million pairs of gloves and mittens (what? i was in antarctica), a solid wardrobe of down coats/jackets/vests, a few tshirts, and a pair of hiking boots. Somewhere between my work pants and long johns, I found my standby, go everywhere swooshy black skirt. So that's a start. I dig into a closet that years ago I sneakily offered to clean out (sure mom, let me take care of that for you!) and is now crammed full of all the things I can't bear to get rid of (who knows? i MIGHT have a kitchen someday. in which case i will absolutely want Nana's old salt and pepper shaker. And I'm still crossing my fingers for bookshelves someday, in which case I will need my 8 boxes of books to fill them).
Somewhere on the top shelf of said closet are a few pairs of shoes. I'd already pulled down my cowgirl boots to replace the sandals I'd traveled in, but I'm not sure that they are suitable for a fancy black skirt. I cast aside my rugby cleats, and an old pair of steel-toed boots. Buried under a pair of mukklukks are the strappy sandals from a wedding a few summers ago, but bare toes seem like a bad idea in light of the rain and cold temperatures. Where are those other black dress shoes I have? Must be at my other abode/storage facility in chicago (aka, my sister's house). Let's see....red mary janes? I had those on the ice....where are they now? Hmm. I think I may have mailed them. But to what address? They're probably still sitting in a post office somewhere. Damn. Do I really have no wearable shoes for dinner? I head back upstairs and rummage through the piles now covering the floor of my borrowed room. Aha! Water shoes. I realize the term "water shoes" conjures up images of garrishly colored mesh shoes with rubber gripper feet attached to a very small person wearing a ruffle butt bikini and water wings. But mine, on the other hand, I am convinced can pass as dress shoes. In fact, when I bought them, I wasn't entirely sure what they were designed for. They are black neoprene mary janes that I discovered were designed for water sports only after stumbling upon them on a website, and they will do just fine.
So now I'm up to a skirt and shoes. Fantastic. I glance at the clock and realize that unless I want dripping wet hair, I had better get in the shower now. In which case I'm going to need some shampoo. The rest of the wardrobe will have to wait. I head out to the store, and somewhere between the shampoo aisle and the travel accessories (since of course I'm already planning my next trip) I find a shirt whose 3/4 length sleeves I object to on principle (as a tall girl who has yet to be amused by sleeves several inches too short). But it's neutral with a classy neckline that might just qualify as dressing up if I replace my ratty jeans with my swooshy black skirt.
I've now spent more time getting ready for this dinner than I think I have collectively spent getting ready for every major event in my life previous. And it is somewhere in the middle of all of this that it occurs to me how lovely it must be for most people to come home to a closet. With clothes hanging in it. So that when such an occasion arrives, they simply pull out a few items, and a normal pair of shoes, and maybe even a pair of stockings. (Crap. Where are my stockings? Do any of them NOT have runs in them?). I bet most people don't have to remember what city their shoes are in. That must be nice.
It is shortly after this thought that I realize that tonight's dinner is the first of several semi-formal occasions that I will be attending in the next week, all of which I had planned to miss before travel plans changed. Not least of which is my nephew's christening next weekend. I think wistfully on the last 5 months during which time I woke up 5 days a week and pulled on the same dusty, oil stained carhartt overalls, one of three long sleeve shirts, and a rapidly disintegrating pair of work boots. It took me exactly 7 minutes to get ready in the morning including tooth brushing and sock finding. Today I think I surpassed the 7 minute mark just sifting through my luggage for the skirt. Nevermind the rest of it. I do a quick mental inventory of other dress clothes that I might possibly still own and deem both my cotton sundress and satin bridesmaid dress inappropriate for the occasion. At least I think my shoes are in Chicago where the christening will be. Immediately disheartened by the lack of appropriate clothing inventory (how did I get to be 31 without a single non-summery dress in my possession?), I consider calling my sister to ask about the attire required at her son's christening. Would carhartts be appropriate? Because I've got those.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Standing on not so solid ground in Christchurch, New Zealand
CHRISTCHURCH, NEW ZEALAND
There are certain assumptions that one operates under, and one of those is that the earth will not move; that the ground beneath ones feet will be solid.
Tuesday morning, February 22, I sat down and wrote a bit about the sudden change in scenery, moving from Antarctica to New Zealand. Before heading out to the U.S. Antarctic program headquarters (the CDC) to use the internet and post these thoughts, I met a few friends for breakfast at the Coffee House, and stopped by my favorite cheese shop who had only just reopened in a new location after their old shop was demolished in the earthquake in September. I took a bus out the CDC, and moments later, the city was struck by a 6.3 magnitude earthquake. I was lucky to be in a strong, low building, and in a room where there wasn't much to fall. It probably only lasted about 30 seconds, but they might very well have been some of the scariest 30 seconds for people here. When the earth stopped moving, I ran outside to find a small group of friends and coworkers from the ice. After shocks continued to rattle both the earth and our nerves. The most unsettling perhaps, was the sound that preceded each tremor- a low rumbling from deep in the earth, the sound of stone cracking according to some locals.
For those of us away from the city center, it was only as we heard radio transmissions, and could see pictures posted on the internet, that we began to realize just how bad it was. The news of course is now littered with photos of collapsed buildings and bloody faces, and the search continues for both bodies and survivors.
We are the lucky ones. There were nearly 600 people who had left Antarctica and flown into Christchurch in the last week, and the staff here, along with some dedicated facebookers, have worked at tracking down every one of them. For those of us still in the area, we are fortunate to have a place to sleep, and we are well fed, and in good company. We even have internet and phone access, along with power and water, a luxury that most of the city is lacking.
There are certain assumptions that one operates under, and one of those is that the earth will not move; that the ground beneath ones feet will be solid.
Tuesday morning, February 22, I sat down and wrote a bit about the sudden change in scenery, moving from Antarctica to New Zealand. Before heading out to the U.S. Antarctic program headquarters (the CDC) to use the internet and post these thoughts, I met a few friends for breakfast at the Coffee House, and stopped by my favorite cheese shop who had only just reopened in a new location after their old shop was demolished in the earthquake in September. I took a bus out the CDC, and moments later, the city was struck by a 6.3 magnitude earthquake. I was lucky to be in a strong, low building, and in a room where there wasn't much to fall. It probably only lasted about 30 seconds, but they might very well have been some of the scariest 30 seconds for people here. When the earth stopped moving, I ran outside to find a small group of friends and coworkers from the ice. After shocks continued to rattle both the earth and our nerves. The most unsettling perhaps, was the sound that preceded each tremor- a low rumbling from deep in the earth, the sound of stone cracking according to some locals.
For those of us away from the city center, it was only as we heard radio transmissions, and could see pictures posted on the internet, that we began to realize just how bad it was. The news of course is now littered with photos of collapsed buildings and bloody faces, and the search continues for both bodies and survivors.
We are the lucky ones. There were nearly 600 people who had left Antarctica and flown into Christchurch in the last week, and the staff here, along with some dedicated facebookers, have worked at tracking down every one of them. For those of us still in the area, we are fortunate to have a place to sleep, and we are well fed, and in good company. We even have internet and phone access, along with power and water, a luxury that most of the city is lacking.
Friday, February 18, 2011
carrie vs. the weather
McMURDO SOUND, ANTARCTICA
For but a brief moment, the small ridge behind me blocks the icy gusts so that all I hear are the waves crashing on the shore below me. What was once solid ice is now open ocean. Towards the south, the water opens beyond station, while to the northwest, water stretches across the horizon. It is the most open water anyone has seen at McMurdo in over a decade. The ships come and go freely, and the occasional whale can be seen spouting out in the sound.
Where once the vast expanse of white ice stretched to the mountains across the way, the steel blue ocean now offers depth and perspective, and I am no longer convinced that the Royal Society Mountains could be reached after a long day's walk.
My eyelashes have frozen, and the fleece gator pulled up over my nose and cheeks is covered in the crystals of my frozen breath. Snow swirls around my feet as I fumble with the zipper on my camera bag. I snap a quick photo of the open water and then hurry to put my camera away and shove my hands as deep into the pockets of my down parka as possible. Gone are the days of fleece jackets. I am now testing the limits of the latest addition to my downy wardrobe. I turn to walk back up the hill towards home. The wind picks up and with each gust, I struggle to keep my feet firmly planted. The bitter cold bites at my cheeks, and I regret not grabbing my goggles on my way out. I pull my hood up over my hat, and tuck my chin into the collar of my coat and start trudging up the hill.
Snow continues to fall. The weather forecast suggests that the weather will only get worse in the next day or two, increasing the anxiety of the hundreds hoping to depart station this week, heading north to a land of green. (Some call it "New Zealand." I call it heaven). But for now, Antarctica holds us hostage. Already, two planes have been delayed leaving 150 people with nothing to do but wait out the storm. 123 other poor souls, along with myself, are now crossing our fingers that these two planes will make it here and back, so that the next plane, our personal savior, will arrive on time on Monday.
For but a brief moment, the small ridge behind me blocks the icy gusts so that all I hear are the waves crashing on the shore below me. What was once solid ice is now open ocean. Towards the south, the water opens beyond station, while to the northwest, water stretches across the horizon. It is the most open water anyone has seen at McMurdo in over a decade. The ships come and go freely, and the occasional whale can be seen spouting out in the sound.
Where once the vast expanse of white ice stretched to the mountains across the way, the steel blue ocean now offers depth and perspective, and I am no longer convinced that the Royal Society Mountains could be reached after a long day's walk.
My eyelashes have frozen, and the fleece gator pulled up over my nose and cheeks is covered in the crystals of my frozen breath. Snow swirls around my feet as I fumble with the zipper on my camera bag. I snap a quick photo of the open water and then hurry to put my camera away and shove my hands as deep into the pockets of my down parka as possible. Gone are the days of fleece jackets. I am now testing the limits of the latest addition to my downy wardrobe. I turn to walk back up the hill towards home. The wind picks up and with each gust, I struggle to keep my feet firmly planted. The bitter cold bites at my cheeks, and I regret not grabbing my goggles on my way out. I pull my hood up over my hat, and tuck my chin into the collar of my coat and start trudging up the hill.
Snow continues to fall. The weather forecast suggests that the weather will only get worse in the next day or two, increasing the anxiety of the hundreds hoping to depart station this week, heading north to a land of green. (Some call it "New Zealand." I call it heaven). But for now, Antarctica holds us hostage. Already, two planes have been delayed leaving 150 people with nothing to do but wait out the storm. 123 other poor souls, along with myself, are now crossing our fingers that these two planes will make it here and back, so that the next plane, our personal savior, will arrive on time on Monday.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Miles to Go
McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA
I am leaning over the sink watching bright red droplets of blood fall onto the clean white porcelain. It's the second bloody nose that I've had in as many days. As always, it starts with the familiar trickle of blood inside my nose, a feeling just barely discernible from my constantly runny nose brought on by the cold. The frequent bloody nose isn't at all concerning, just an unpleasant side effect of living in the driest place on earth.
As I wait for the blood to stop, I look at my fingers, holding on to the edges of the sink. Every one of my fingers is cracked, some show the faint tinge of blood, many have fissures that have now grown rough and thick on their edges and I think they may never heal. Somehow my hands seem drier today than usual, my knuckles resembling the dried and cracked mud in a desert with no rain. I make a note to put on lotion as soon as I get back to work. I do a mental survey to figure out if I've done anything different lately: it is not yet lunch and I am on my third liter of drinking water. I'll down another two before the day is over. I remembered to fill my humidifier last night before going to bed, and set it on high so that in the course of the night, the entire gallon of water was pumped into the air. Perhaps the worsening cracks in my hands are just a sign of the season- it is time to go, head north to warmer, more humid climates.
Having grown up in Cincinnati, whose summers are reminiscent of a sweaty armpit, I am well accustomed to humidity. This does not mean that I am a fan of the thick sticky air, or frizzy hair, or the damp pages of a book left open. Three years in Colorado during college was a lovely reprieve from the humidity of my childhood, and even here I don't mind the lack of moisture. Even indoors, I can dry my clothes on a clothesline in less time than it would take in a conventional drier. I am quite content without the sticky film of too much moisture on my skin.
After four months, however, I am daydreaming of humidity. I am looking forward to my fingers healing, and the rest of my skin to stop itching because of the dryness. And I certainly won't miss the bloody noses. I can hardly wait for the world of smells again, something aside from diesel and fried food, anyway. Without humidity, and with very little life, Antarctica is a place virtually devoid of smell. Even the snow has no smell- when I was a kid, snow was a rare treat, and one of my favorite parts was the way the air smelled just before it snowed. But not here.
It seems that the last couple weeks of the season are the roughest by far- the end is near, but not near enough. It's like the last couple miles of a long hike- sure, if you had to you could hike a couple more days, but when you know you're getting close to trail's end, it is then that you realize how desperately you need a shower, and how your knees ache, and the way your backpack straps chafe. Just a few more miles to go....
I am leaning over the sink watching bright red droplets of blood fall onto the clean white porcelain. It's the second bloody nose that I've had in as many days. As always, it starts with the familiar trickle of blood inside my nose, a feeling just barely discernible from my constantly runny nose brought on by the cold. The frequent bloody nose isn't at all concerning, just an unpleasant side effect of living in the driest place on earth.
As I wait for the blood to stop, I look at my fingers, holding on to the edges of the sink. Every one of my fingers is cracked, some show the faint tinge of blood, many have fissures that have now grown rough and thick on their edges and I think they may never heal. Somehow my hands seem drier today than usual, my knuckles resembling the dried and cracked mud in a desert with no rain. I make a note to put on lotion as soon as I get back to work. I do a mental survey to figure out if I've done anything different lately: it is not yet lunch and I am on my third liter of drinking water. I'll down another two before the day is over. I remembered to fill my humidifier last night before going to bed, and set it on high so that in the course of the night, the entire gallon of water was pumped into the air. Perhaps the worsening cracks in my hands are just a sign of the season- it is time to go, head north to warmer, more humid climates.
Having grown up in Cincinnati, whose summers are reminiscent of a sweaty armpit, I am well accustomed to humidity. This does not mean that I am a fan of the thick sticky air, or frizzy hair, or the damp pages of a book left open. Three years in Colorado during college was a lovely reprieve from the humidity of my childhood, and even here I don't mind the lack of moisture. Even indoors, I can dry my clothes on a clothesline in less time than it would take in a conventional drier. I am quite content without the sticky film of too much moisture on my skin.
After four months, however, I am daydreaming of humidity. I am looking forward to my fingers healing, and the rest of my skin to stop itching because of the dryness. And I certainly won't miss the bloody noses. I can hardly wait for the world of smells again, something aside from diesel and fried food, anyway. Without humidity, and with very little life, Antarctica is a place virtually devoid of smell. Even the snow has no smell- when I was a kid, snow was a rare treat, and one of my favorite parts was the way the air smelled just before it snowed. But not here.
It seems that the last couple weeks of the season are the roughest by far- the end is near, but not near enough. It's like the last couple miles of a long hike- sure, if you had to you could hike a couple more days, but when you know you're getting close to trail's end, it is then that you realize how desperately you need a shower, and how your knees ache, and the way your backpack straps chafe. Just a few more miles to go....
Monday, February 7, 2011
Driving Record
McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA
Before arriving in Antarctica for the first time in 2005, my driving experience (in terms of vehicles) looked something like this:
Six years and two frostbitten fingers later, my list looks something like this:
And the latest addition to my list: a Tucker Sno-Cat. This particular model looks like it belongs on the moon, though it is still not, perhaps, the most peculiar vehicle operated on station. Tuckers, of course, are not unique to Antarctica. They are built in Medford, OR, and used in all sorts of snowy places, particularly ski resorts.
Six years ago I hadn't even heard of most of the vehicles I've driven here, and there's still a few I haven't: the Nodwell and the Hagglund, and a whole fleet of heavy machinery. But the Tucker was the last to cross off on my list of want-to-drive vehicles. Fortunately, over the course of the week, they'll be unloading (from the ship) a monster of a vehicle to haul cargo, that I imagine will move right to the top of my now empty list of things to drive.
Before arriving in Antarctica for the first time in 2005, my driving experience (in terms of vehicles) looked something like this:
- car.
- pickup truck
- bicycle
Six years and two frostbitten fingers later, my list looks something like this:
- Loaders- a half-dozen or so varieties.
- Snowmobile
- Pisten Bully
- Pisten Bully Scout
- Delta
- Five Ton Truck with Trailer
- Terra Bus
And the latest addition to my list: a Tucker Sno-Cat. This particular model looks like it belongs on the moon, though it is still not, perhaps, the most peculiar vehicle operated on station. Tuckers, of course, are not unique to Antarctica. They are built in Medford, OR, and used in all sorts of snowy places, particularly ski resorts.
Six years ago I hadn't even heard of most of the vehicles I've driven here, and there's still a few I haven't: the Nodwell and the Hagglund, and a whole fleet of heavy machinery. But the Tucker was the last to cross off on my list of want-to-drive vehicles. Fortunately, over the course of the week, they'll be unloading (from the ship) a monster of a vehicle to haul cargo, that I imagine will move right to the top of my now empty list of things to drive.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
A Stirring in the Night
McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA
It is 2:27 am, and of course it is broad daylight. Typically at this time of night, town is eerily quiet. There is the stray back up alarm of a loader in a distant cargo yard, but very little else. I work the night shift, along with a perhaps 100 others, while the other 900 people in town work the day shift. I eat eggs and toast for dinner, and pasta and wine for breakfast, if I'm lucky. Typically on my nights off, after 10 pm or so, when all of my day working friends have turned in, I feel like I have the place to myself. The galley is empty, along with the computer kiosk and gym. I often borrow an office to use the internet and phone, and no one is likely to notice I'm here. On occasion I've even snuck into an unused kitchen for some baking on the sly. I rarely see anyone until breakfast.
Tonight however, I am not the only creature stirring. It is ship offload, which ought to be a season in it's own right. The population has swelled to 1100, thanks to Navy cargo folks, and the Kiwi defense force, and a handful of winterovers, all here to help with the boat. The container ship is finally docked at the pier after much ado. Ice has a way of wreaking havoc- it took explosives to get rid of an ice ledge growing off the pier, but the explosion caused a crack in said pier, also made of ice. Stubborn pack ice fills the channel, and at one point an iceberg blocked the channel altogether. But alas, the boat is finally here, stacked high with metal shipping containers. To get the boat unloaded and the containers unpacked is a massive feat, accomplished by changing to 24 hour operations. Most departments will go to 12 hour shifts, without a day off, until the boat is done.
Outside I can hear the ancient truck and trailers rumbling over gravel roads, delivering milvans (20 ft. metal shipping containers) around town. The water truck makes it's rounds, spraying water on the roads in an effort to keep the volcanic dust down. A cacophony of back up alarms drown the silence, as nearly every loader on station is in use. At the midnight meal, the line winds around the galley.
In comparison to previous seasons, this boat is supposedly small, with significantly less containers. I am hoping this will mean a quick offload, and an end to the madness.
It is 2:27 am, and of course it is broad daylight. Typically at this time of night, town is eerily quiet. There is the stray back up alarm of a loader in a distant cargo yard, but very little else. I work the night shift, along with a perhaps 100 others, while the other 900 people in town work the day shift. I eat eggs and toast for dinner, and pasta and wine for breakfast, if I'm lucky. Typically on my nights off, after 10 pm or so, when all of my day working friends have turned in, I feel like I have the place to myself. The galley is empty, along with the computer kiosk and gym. I often borrow an office to use the internet and phone, and no one is likely to notice I'm here. On occasion I've even snuck into an unused kitchen for some baking on the sly. I rarely see anyone until breakfast.
Tonight however, I am not the only creature stirring. It is ship offload, which ought to be a season in it's own right. The population has swelled to 1100, thanks to Navy cargo folks, and the Kiwi defense force, and a handful of winterovers, all here to help with the boat. The container ship is finally docked at the pier after much ado. Ice has a way of wreaking havoc- it took explosives to get rid of an ice ledge growing off the pier, but the explosion caused a crack in said pier, also made of ice. Stubborn pack ice fills the channel, and at one point an iceberg blocked the channel altogether. But alas, the boat is finally here, stacked high with metal shipping containers. To get the boat unloaded and the containers unpacked is a massive feat, accomplished by changing to 24 hour operations. Most departments will go to 12 hour shifts, without a day off, until the boat is done.
Outside I can hear the ancient truck and trailers rumbling over gravel roads, delivering milvans (20 ft. metal shipping containers) around town. The water truck makes it's rounds, spraying water on the roads in an effort to keep the volcanic dust down. A cacophony of back up alarms drown the silence, as nearly every loader on station is in use. At the midnight meal, the line winds around the galley.
In comparison to previous seasons, this boat is supposedly small, with significantly less containers. I am hoping this will mean a quick offload, and an end to the madness.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Sherbet Skies
ROSS ICE SHELF, ANTARCTICA
It is late summer now and the sun is sinking lower towards the horizon each day. Last night was the first of sherbet skies- there is a seam of firey orange on the horizon, in the space between the mountain peaks and the low hanging clouds. To the west, swirls of pink mingle with blue sky. As the hours pass, the clouds shift and the light changes varying the shades of orange and gold and pink. I am fortunate to be working at the airfield where I have plenty of time to watch the light show.
For months now, the sun has stayed high in the sky, appearing to circle overhead. The cloud patterns may change, storms come and go, but the sun stays about the same. Intense white light. But now, at the end of the austral summer, as the sun sinks low, the colors return. The mountains glow with the sunlight reflecting off the glaciers. I snap a few photos, but none begin to show the beauty of this evening.
It is late summer now and the sun is sinking lower towards the horizon each day. Last night was the first of sherbet skies- there is a seam of firey orange on the horizon, in the space between the mountain peaks and the low hanging clouds. To the west, swirls of pink mingle with blue sky. As the hours pass, the clouds shift and the light changes varying the shades of orange and gold and pink. I am fortunate to be working at the airfield where I have plenty of time to watch the light show.
For months now, the sun has stayed high in the sky, appearing to circle overhead. The cloud patterns may change, storms come and go, but the sun stays about the same. Intense white light. But now, at the end of the austral summer, as the sun sinks low, the colors return. The mountains glow with the sunlight reflecting off the glaciers. I snap a few photos, but none begin to show the beauty of this evening.
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