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.