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.