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.