The Worst Airline in the World

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

I would speculate that the percentage of on schedule departures around here hovers well below the 25% rate. And by on schedule, I mean on the day they are scheduled to depart. On time departures? Forget it. I bet that’s happened a dozen times total in my three year career in ATO (Antarctic Terminal Operations).

Today we put four passengers on an hour long delta ride to the airfield knowing full well that in all likelihood we’d be turning their shuttle around and bringing them back to town. Lest you think that an hour ride out on the ice shelf could be a pleasant scenic affair, let me paint a portrait of delta ride. Deltas are massive vehicles with tires as tall as me. If the vehicle ever had an effective suspension, it is long gone. Foam benches line the inside of the barely heated passenger box that sits high on the back of the vehicle. Scratched plexiglass windows quickly fog and then ice over with the moisture of human breath, dashing any hope of sighting penguins or seals or even just admiring the view. Afternoon thawing and nighttime refreezing of the snow roads leaves “washboarding” which is exactly as unpleasant as it sounds. The dull rocking of the passenger box lulls the passengers to something just shy of sleep, but the semi-regular pits and ruts jar one from the haze. Today is sunny and relatively clear, but on an overcast day with flat light, the variations in the surface are impossible to see, and so inevitably the delta will plunge into an unseen hole sending the driver flying into the padded ceiling and the passengers in the back sliding off benches.

So four folks today spent two hours riding back and forth in one of these metal boxes only to end up back where they started with the promise of doing it all again tomorrow, when hopefully the weather at their destination will improve. But this is hardly the worst fate we’ve dealt a group of passengers. There were the passengers trying to get to the South Pole who boomeranged three times in one day. This means they rode a delta out to the airfield, waited to board the aircraft, got on a plane, took off, and some minutes later turned around because of bad weather, arrived back at the airfield from which they left, boarded a shuttle back to town, and then did it all over again. Twice more.

Last week, I finally saw off two passengers who had waited for two weeks for a working plane and good weather. They left town at 6:45 am, and I watched from my computer as the flight delayed for mechanical issues hour after hour. They finally departed at 5:45 pm. Four hours later they would arrive in camp where they would need to set up a tent before being able to call it a day.

If we were an airline, we would certainly be rated the worst airline in the world. We offer no frequent flyer mile condolences when people fly five hours to their destination, circle for an hour, and fly five hours back to town because the runway was impossible to locate and the sastrugi were as tall as the wings of the plane. When passengers are scheduled to fly, we give them departure times that sound like this: “Well, you’ll probably leave around 2pm, but you’re the backup mission for the first line, so you’ll need to wake up early and watch the transport marquis for updates just in case your flight activates. And then just keep your eye on it all day long. Don’t leave your room or go anywhere where we can’t find you in a heartbeat. Oh, and the weather at your destination looks marginal at best, so there’s a good chance you won’t fly at all.”

As a redeeming quality, we do a pretty good job of not losing luggage. I would hazard a guess that 99% of all passengers end up on the same plane as their luggage, and collect their baggage at their destination. The other 1% is sometimes delayed, or claimed by the wrong passenger, but even those bags eventually end up in the right hands. Not bad for the worst airline in the world.  

Going for a Ride

WEST ANTARCTICA

The drone of the propellers is loud in my ears, and a faint vibration courses through me. My feet are stretched out under the tail of a helicopter, and my coat hangs from the landing gear. To date, this helicopter is by far my strangest flight companion. I am escorting an A-star helicopter to Pine Island Glacier at the far reaches of West Antarctica.

The helicopter will be part of a project to profile the Pine Island Glacier and to better understand the way it is moving and changing, and to understand its impact on the rest of the world. The project has been years in planning, and trying to move these helicopters has been two seasons of headaches.

The loading of the helicopters onto the aircraft went remarkably smoothly for both flights, as though sliding a helicopter into the belly of an aircraft  is a perfectly natural thing. I am here purely as a spectator. I will spend nearly nine hours in the air for less than an hour on the ground. But the chance to see the helicopters reach their destination, and for a quick glimpse of the camp, it is absolutely worth the ride.

Skuas and Ice

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

A flutter of feathers hits my head with a soft thud, and in an instant, a talon sweeps across my thumb and knocks the English muffin out of my hand. It is then that I realize that I have been the victim of a skua attack. My breakfast gone from my hand, I continue on my way to work, while behind me the skua tears apart its booty. I am not yet in the habit of tucking food into my coat when dashing between buildings, though I’d known the skuas had arrived, having very nearly tripped over one in the middle of the road on a day previous. The skuas here are fearless, and it is not the only time that I’ve nearly walked right into one. The arrival of these oversized gulls is a sure sign of summer though it seems the warmer temperatures have been slow to follow this season.

Walking home from work, I slide across the ice, and only the ridges from tires and tracks keep me upright. Yesterday’s sunny day melt pools have turned into a treacherous topography of ice on gravel. Thin patches give way under my weight, but the melt pools are thin enough, and the day cold enough, that there is thankfully no frigid water for my foot to find below.  Inside I peel the fleece gaiter from my face, and pull off my gloves. The thermostat reads 58 F, but I consider this a marked improvement from yesterday’s 79 F. I close the window which until now has been open several inches. The battle to keep my room from turning into a sauna wages on.  

Early Start

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

The clock reads 5:34 and sunlight bleeds into the room through the gaps in the curtain. Though my alarm will go off any second, I lay in bed in denial. Final I crawl out from under a down comforter with a shiver. Outside the wind howls, and the curtain flutters thanks to the large gap in our closed window. Neither the darkness nor the sound of the wind nor my snoring roommate make me want to crawl out of bed. I pull on a ratty old t-shirt and a pair of pants and rummage around in the dark for my sunglasses and my pager. It is not yet 6 am when I slip out the door. The bold glare of fluorescent lights in the hallway leaves me squinting and scowling as I bundle into my coat and gaiter and hat and gloves. Down the stairs and out the door, I am immediately pummeled with a cold gust. I pull my neck gaiter up a little higher, trying to cover every inch of skin on my face, and then pull my puffy down hood up over my woolen hat. Outside, a few other early risers are making their way to the galley or the gym. Three people stand at the shuttle stop waiting for their ride to the airfield. Their black carhartts and red parkas with hoods cinched tight make them completely anonymous as they huddle together with their backs against the wind. I don’t remember November being so cold, I think as I dart across the metal bridge and past the lab. Across the cul de sac and up the hill I trudge into the wind, just as a few Australians step out of Hotel California, an aging wooden dorm building. The Australians have been stuck in town for days, awaiting flights to Casey Station, and are easily identifiable by their sunny yellow parkas and windpants. I don’t envy them the bright yellow gear, though I do wish the U.S. Antarctic Program would consider upgrading to Sorel boots like the Australians.

Just a little farther, I step into the relative warmth of the Berg Field Center. Though the building is aging, overcrowded, and sorely inadequate for all that happens here, it is a cozy, nostalgic building with hardwood floors and exposed steel beams that someone decades ago carefully painted a dark reddish-orange. Pictures on the walls depict life on the ice from the days of Shackleton and ponies and dogsleds to the present age of helicopters flights to penguin rookeries. During most of the day, and well into most evenings, the Field Center, better known as the BFC, is bustling with activity as science groups and field camp staff gather stoves and tents and tools and compasses and all manner of climbing gear. But for now, the building is quiet, many of the smaller rooms still dark.

I take off my socks and shoes and change into workout pants. Along with another reluctant early-riser, I pull out weights and a mat for an hour long workout video led by a woman who is both quirky and irritating, who delivers inspirational quotations and terrible one liners, and suggests awkward exercises as potential dance moves. My cohort and I groan our way through the workout that in spite of all its irritations has successfully dragged me out of bed three times a week for the last two months, if not for its memorable one liners, then for a one hour workout that passes quickly and leaves me happily sore.

I change back into work clothes and step back outside into the cold wind. I pick my way across the rock and ice. Warmer days have left an increasing amount of patches of bare rock, and less of the smooth, wind-swept death-trap skating rink ice. I’ve switched shoes to accommodate the changing terrain, giving up my toasty soft-soled mukluks for lug soled hiking shoes, but today as the wind chill dips to thirty below, I long for the wooly warmth of my mukluks.

The day starts off with a temporary relocation due to a malfunctioning computer, and progresses through an endless series of emails, phone calls, and meetings. The day ends with me curled up under the same down comforter that I crawled out from under 12 hours earlier, drifting into an evening nap. 

On a Snowy Day

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

On a cold snowy day that demands a fireplace and a cup of hot chocolate, I find myself seated at my desk, with neither in sight. It has always been a somewhat cruel reality that while I live in a wintery wonderland, Antarctica is entirely devoid of all the things that has made winter a cozy and somewhat magical affair elsewhere in the world. There is nary a tree for the snow to land on, and a strict fire ban, not to mention the aging, highly flammable buildings, most lacking any sort of fire suppression system, leaves us sans crackling fire. So instead I tuck my feet against the space heater under my desk, and watch the snow fall through the tiny window beyond my computer screen. A fleece blanket is draped across my lap, and fingerless mitts keep my hands warm as I fill spreadsheet after spreadsheet. Insulation is certainly not this building’s strong point and sitting still leaves me fighting for warmth all day.

By the time I go to lunch, all of town is painted with a fresh coat of snow, candy coating soot covered machinery and the dusty gravel roads. Snowflakes collect on my eyelashes, and I’d linger a little longer if not for the cold breeze biting at my cheeks. I tuck my chin into my fleecy neck gaiter and hurry down to the galley. From behind the galley building wafts the vague smell of fried food, but I cross my fingers for macaroni and cheese as I join the throng of other workers making their way into the building. I hang my coat up and wash my hands before making my way through the line. Alas, none of the hoped-for comfort foods are on the menu today. It’s hard not to be disappointed, but I guess one can only complain so much when free food is cooked by others and piled high in front of me.

It is not just sustenance that lunch offers me, but also an hour of time with friends to break up my often solitary work days. We exchange rumors, ogle the newcomers, and bemoan the disappointing lunch spread. In the every increasingly crowded galley, it is more the norm than the exception to find oneself pulling an eighth chair up to a table for six. Nestled elbow to elbow with friends and coworkers, the lunch hour inevitably passes too quickly and I soon find myself trudging back up the hill, squinting against the onslaught of snow. 

Hitchhiker

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

While labeling cargo, I slid a crate over in order to reach the other side and as I did, a long black spider darted out from under the crate. I instinctively dropped the can in my hand on the spider, trapping it in the space under the can. Only after I caught it did I think, "Huh. That's not normal." Afterall, I live on a continent without insect life. Well. Theoretically without insect life. This little arachnid traveled quite the distance, from Christchurch to this frozen continent, only to find himself trapped in a ziploc bag, the subject of an environmental contamination report. Its life expectancy has suddenly grown very short. 

A Feather and A Zipper

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

A tiny feather clings to my eyelashes, while another one drifts precariously close to my nostril. My nose twitches with the anticipation of a sneeze. A halo of down swirls above me, drifting lazily. On my lap, a down coat lays with its baffles exposed, spilling its lofty contents across my lap. I curse under my breath as I painstakingly tear each stitch from the silkweight fabric with a scalpel. I am tearing out the increasingly toothless zipper from a brand new coat. Unfortunately, our proximity to nowhere means that warranty repairs are out of the question. It would easily be January before the coat would arrive back from the repair shop, just as the field season is winding down. When a zipper is what stands between one and the Antarctic breeze, its importance increases just a little. Replacing a zipper is quite possibly my least favorite sewing project, but somehow I hate it even more when I'm fixing someone else's shoddy work.

Alas, the zippers are done, as is my time in the Berg Field Center where I spent the last six weeks repairing gear and prepping equipment for incoming science groups. Now I will turn my attention to the field camps and the cargo and people that will be heading out there this year. The season promises to be a busy one, and already my days are long.

The Onset of Summer

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

I set down my whiskey and dashed out the door in a way that only salad could make me. Somewhere around the first of September, fresh produce at meals had all but disappeared. The apples, potatoes, and onions lingered on a week or so longer, but by the time the first flights of mainbody began arriving this week, it had been a month since I had tasted anything crisp or juicy. The canned fruit just wasn’t cutting it anymore.

I hurried into the galley on Friday night to find giant metal bowls piled high with apples and pears, and a long line waiting for the bananas to be restocked. I heaped salad onto my plate and stuffed my pockets full of fruit. Back at home, I had to fight the urge to inhale my salad quickly. The arrival of fresh greens into my gastrointestinal tract after so many weeks without left me with a terrible stomachache, but not terrible enough to stop me from gorging on salad every time the opportunity presents itself.

My fridge is now blissfully stocked with an avocado, a few apples, a plum and a pear, though now that flights are arriving regularly, we shouldn’t have to wait so long for freshies. Along with spinach and apples and cream and eggs, the flights have brought letters and packages and a couple hundred new people. With the arrival of summer friends, and the recent spike in temperatures, summer now seems in full swing. Gone are the slow quiet mornings with but a few people straggling through the galley for breakfast, gone too the long lingering dinners in a nearly empty dining room. The darkness is slowly disappearing too, and in a matter of weeks we will be left with the relentless summer sun to match to relentless pace of the summer season. 

A brief summary of the day

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA Today's weather forecast:

-25°C|-13°F Max Temperature -56°C|-68.8°F Min Wind Chill

Skies: Cloudy Visibility (miles): 1-3 in light snow and blowing snow Winds (knots): E 15-20 gusts

Today's Clothing Choices:

Two pair long johns
wool t-shirt
wool quarter zip pullover
insulated pullover
thickest wool socks
insulated carhartt overalls
windfleece hat
windfleece neck gator
fleece gator
knitted wool hat
goggles
hooded down coat
down mittens

End of the Day

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

The sun crested the hill for the first time today, filling the early afternoon with light and shadows. The ambient temperature is above 0 F for the first time in days, though the wind chill still dips below -15 F. It certainly is an improvement over the blowing snow and 60 knot winds of tuesday though, whose windchill dropped below -50 F, making even the tiniest patch of exposed skin on my face absolutely miserable. 

On Tuesday, a Condition One looked likely, a weather status that reflects high winds or poor visibility, and restricts movement outdoors. Not wanting to get stuck at work, we headed home early, through the blowing snow, picking our way across roads by memory and the faintest of landmarks. We struggled to keep our feet as the crosswinds nearly knocked us over. 

Today, on the other hand, I walked to lunch after leaving the gym, my face and neck exposed, the polar breeze cooling my sweaty skin. Now at the end of the day, I sit overlooking the Transantarctic mountains, the faint remnants of the sun glowing on the horizon to the north. Farther south, a swath of purple clouds hangs low over the mountains, and I can just make out a single seal lounging by the Big John Crack, my first wildlife of the season. With every passing minute, the light changes, and the town slowly descends into the dusky gray of twilight. 

When I arrived at McMurdo less than three weeks ago, darkness descended well before the end of the work day, and night lasted well past breakfast. The light changes quickly. In another few weeks, we will be into 24 hours of daylight. Though the increasing sunshine is good for the morale, I am already nostalgic for the disappearing darkness. The stillness of the cold polar night is a blanket I am reluctant to relinquish. 

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

CINCINNATI, OH

I didn't mean to take the summer off from writing, but it sort of worked out that way. One chapter ambled into the next as I flitted about the country, or about 6000 miles of it anyway. Now after months of traveling, its time to get back to work. My bags are packed, and I leave for the airport in less than an hour to start my long progression south. I feel a bit like I did as a child when the summer came to a screeching halt, and I begrudgingly put on my uniform to go back to school, where inevitably the first task was to write an essay. So here's mine: 

"What I did on my summer vacation" by Carrie

I planted a really big garden, and spent a lot of time lamenting the really big weeds that went with it. 

I built a house. Well, I mean, I had help. 

I spent some time in Denver, mostly jumping through hoops for this crazy job I have, but also spending time with favorite people, going to a ball game, biking around the city, and eating tuna tartare and wine for breakfast at the art museum. Clearly I was too busy to take a single picture. 

I went kayaking in the Apostle Islands in Lake Superior. 

I took my niece and nephew (and sometimes their parents came too!) on little adventures to the park and the zoo and the beach. 

But alas, now my bags are packed and waiting by the door. It was a good summer, but now its time to get back to work. 

Let it Rain

MUDDY CREEK, NORTHERN CHEYENNE RESERVATION, MT


I leapt from my chair at the sound of the first few drops splattering on the canopy under which I sat working. I dashed to the tool trailer for a screw gun as the rain began to fall. The "old hands" know this drill all too well, and the new volunteers followed suit. As the light drizzle turned to a steady rain, tarps were unfurled and pulled up and over the exposed straw bale walls. I bent down to screw in tack bars to keep the tarp in place. Wet curls fell around my face, extra screws dangling from my lips. Workers moved frantically around the house, up and down ladders, until every last inch of straw was covered. Cold shirtsleeves clung to my shoulders, and a shiver ran through me as I worked, nothing but adrenaline to keep me warm. We had been tempting fate all morning, working under the shadow of dark clouds, trying to get as much done as possible before the rains fell. Keeping the straw bales dry during the building process is imperative. 


A week has passed now since our frantic tarping exercise, and not another drop has fallen. The house now has it's own roof to keep the bales dry, and in the coming days will be coated in stucco, sealing the bales against moisture in the future. 


The house and our nearby tents are swathed in the smoke from nearby forest fires, and while building a house with one family in desperate need of quality affordable housing, I am acutely aware of the impact of the loss of 60 homes in nearby Ashland. 


With a solid roof, the rising temperatures, and flames on the horizon, I'm crossing all of my fingers that the rain begins to fall again. 

1152 Miles Behind Me and 110 to Go

SHERIDAN, WY


I woke up at the crack of dawn on Thursday to the sound of my niece giggling. My tiny nephew had the good sense to still be sleeping at six a.m. After everybody was dressed and fed, and strapped into carseats, I waved goodbye to my sister and nephew and niece (who proclaimed me magical as she waved goodbye, which I think is just about the best compliment one can get). I packed up my laundry and my bike, and headed west. 


I drove over the rolling hills of Wisconsin and past the small dairy farms before crossing the  mighty Mississippi into Minnesota. Too far south for the pines and lakes that endeared me to Minnesota in the past, endless rolling hills stretch out before me, these lower and more sparsely populated than Wisconsin. Late afternoon clouds brought a brief rain shower, just enough to wash the dust from my car and bike, but not quite enough to clean my bug spattered windshield. The rain cleared and I was left with the loveliest of sunsets, silhouetting barns and wind turbines, slate blue clouds hanging low above the horizon. I crossed the border into South Dakota, pulling into Sioux Falls just before darkness fell. Parked in a less than scenic campground, I drifted off to sleep in the glow of the streetlights to the distant sound of semis on the interstate. 


On Friday morning, my campground neighbors packed up their tent and peeled their young children off the swings, promising plenty of stops along the way as they headed towards the Badlands and Mt. Rushmore. I headed off instead to the doctor's office for an annual check-up, hardly the activity of the usual tourist. While filling out paper work, I explained to the friendly woman behind the counter exactly why I'm attending a clinic in Sioux Falls while I "live" in Chicago. Not long after, I found myself wrapping gifts in a drugstore parking lot before swinging by the post office. One more stop at the nearest internet cafe (aka Starbucks) to pay my phone bill, and finally I am Wyoming-bound. Somewhere around the time that I propped my computer on top of my truck in the post office parking lot to look up an address, it strikes me that this is not the sort of day most people have on cross-country roadtrips. Well then, I suppose we've already established that I'm not most people. Just as soon as the U.S. Federal Government starts issuing drivers license, I'll be able to let go of this myth that I live anywhere other than out of a suitcase or the back of my truck, depending on the season. 


The late start getting out of Sioux Falls made for a grueling day of driving. When the late afternoon sun blazed through the window in the middle of South Dakota, I had only traveled a few hours. I stopped only for a dose of caffeine, and then cursed my heavy eyelids as I headed West alongside an army of RV's. The heat of the afternoon was stifling, and my air conditioner could hardly keep up. The scenery of central South Dakota is lacking, endless stretches of flat grasslands with hardly a tree. Cows huddled in the corners of pasture, desperate for the shade that doesn't exist. At some point just east of the badlands, I crested a small hill and suddenly before me, there are the hills and buttes that had been lacking for the last several hundred miles. The Badlands came and went, and I cruised on through Rapid City. Crossing into Wyoming, most signs of human civilization fell away, each exit marked  "No Services 26 Miles." Finally I pulled into Gillette for the night. 


Today's driving was short, a mere 90 minutes here to Sheridan, and about as many ahead of me. I am making my way to the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Southeast Montana to work on another straw bale construction project with Red Feather Development Group. I'm looking forward to parking the truck for a bit and getting to work. 

The Pleasure of Pie

For the Love of Pyrex

READSTOWN, WI

My love affair with Pyrex all started with a tiny blue glass container that I later learned was a refrigerator dish, a remnant of the fifties. I stumbled upon the tiny rectangular dish in a thrift store, along with its slightly larger partner. I loved the robin’s egg blue glaze, and the perfectly fitted glass lids. While I must admit I was oddly charmed by these simple little pieces, and their $1 price tag, I ultimately loved them most for their practicality. The smaller of the two dishes turned out to be exactly the right size for a single serving of just about anything.

The purchase of these Pyrex dishes was followed by a few more refrigerator dishes, including two red ones that I flew half-way across the country. Then there was a tiny yellow casserole dish that was hard to justify buying, but harder still to walk past. The best find yet has perhaps been the trio of mixing bowls that I found at a thrift store for $5. The largest of the original set was missing, and I half-heartedly searched antique stores and flea markets for a replacement. I came across the bowl in a few places but never for less than $40, so I settled for three. Years later, my godmother completed the set for me, and though I have not had a kitchen to call my own since I acquired the sunshine yellow bowl, I grin a little each time I spy it in my storage closet, and imagine someday using it for large batches of bread dough. Beyond the pleasure and practicality of a set of nesting mixing bowls is that satisfaction I get each time I see the set on sale in a flea market, usually with a price tag in the neighborhood of $60.

Last weekend, my farm-owning friend and I went into town and wandered into what might be one of the most fantastic flea markets I’ve found in quite some time. Housed in an old tobacco warehouse, it’s the sort of flea market with heaps of dusty treasures, some more gently used than others. It was here that I found a lovely pink Pyrex pie plate. I’m not particularly fond of pink, but when it comes to Pyrex, I’m willing to make some exceptions. I’d never seen pink Pyrex before, at least nothing that started out as pink. Somehow on a pie plate, it seems perfect. On the way home, I may have been caught actually hugging the pie plate.

Tonight, rhubarb pie fills the dish, and aside from the anxiety that my lovely little treasure will meet the concrete floor in a fatal altercation, I can’t help but grin. 

The Weeds May Be Winning

READSTOWN, WI

I’d like to think that I’m winning the war on goldenrod, which if left unchecked, I am quite certain would take over the entire acre. Distracted from mulching by the new growth, I’ve spent whole mornings hoeing and hand weeding around the tiny tomato seedlings, leaving a trail of wilted plants behind me. But the goldenrod inevitably responds with enthusiastic new growth the next day, bright green stalks stretching up into the morning sun.

While all of suburbia seems to spend their Saturday afternoons convincing grass to grow on their lawns, we seem to have no trouble growing it in the garden, despite our countermeasures. It would seem that our efforts to keep the pea sprouts sufficiently watered are paying off in sod.

Meanwhile, across the aisle in the east side of the garden, the parsnips are coming in rather nicely. In the potato trenches. With no interest in eating the wild parsnips whose leaves are known to raise boils on gardeners’ skin, I carefully pull each individual stalk from deep in the newly turned earth with gloved hands. With the potatoes a ways off, the primary competition for the parsnips is a prickly weed that has run rampant in this small section of the garden. Fortunately, they have not spread much beyond the potato beds, but I do believe they increase in size and ferocity with each passing minute. What started out as a grisly little patch at breakfast is by lunch a vicious bush of thorny leaves. I find pulling these prickly weeds to be particularly satisfying, yanking the harsh green plant from deep in the earth, leaving behind me a bare patch of earth where I envision the lush foliage of the potato vines.      

I'd like to think that as time goes on, the ratio of weeds to vegetables will tip in our favor. In the meantime, I'll be cursing the grass and pulling out goldenrod. 

Dirt Under My Nails

READSTOWN, WI


My cheeks and nose are red, stained by the sun in spite of my hat and sunscreen. There is dirt under my fingernails, and a half-dozen or so small scratches on my arms from blackberry brambles. It's been nearly a week since I arrived here in central Wisconsin to help a friend start his organic farm. 


I am sitting under the shade of a neighbor's maple tree, enjoying the cool breeze blowing across the ridge. It's nice to sit in the cool and relax after another morning of solid work in the sun. This morning I planted the seeds of half a dozen different types of beans, which made up two rows, each about 40 feet long. Earlier this week, I put in about 650 small seedlings, including peppers, tomatoes, and tomatillos. 


I enjoy the work, but I must say, dreaming of fresh tomatoes while staring down a bare patch of earth makes me terribly impatient. What a tough time of year, to be working the earth each day, drooling over seed packet pictures of speckled purple beans and golden beets, and knowing that the bounty is weeks away. 


Fortunately, the local farmer's markets have started for the season, and I have snagged asparagus and rhubarb. These early season delicacies with their short harvest seasons are real treats and help to quell my cravings for fresh produce. Still, I look forward to the satisfaction of eating what I have planted with my own hands, something I have not done for quite some time. 


Though there are to be other adventures mixed in, this summer will be dominated by dirt and weeds and beans and tomatoes, and I expect my writing here will reflect that. Stay tuned for more on the trials and tribulations of getting a small organic farm off the ground. (Or out of the ground....). 

Family Visit

CHICAGO, IL


Four-year-old niece: "Aunt Kit, can you reach that branch and get those berries for me?" 


Me: "No, F. (And as a quick distraction...) Hmm. That looks like a Juniper." 


Niece: "No, Aunt Kit. That's a Jupiter tree." 


Right. Of course. I always have had some trouble keeping my planets and trees straight. 

Hungry in Argentina

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA

Buenos Aires was colder than expected. The meager blankets provided by the hostel were hardly adequate and each night I found myself pulling on my puffy at some point in the middle of the night. The handful of people I saw sleeping on the sidewalks and church steps cocooned in threadbare blankets reminded me as always of how grateful I am to have a bed of some sort each night. It's not always in the same place, and that bed could be a sleeping pad, a borrowed couch, or an air mattress, but a bed nonetheless. 

The cool temps made for pleasant days wandering the city. The city is rife with shady tree-lined boulevards and public parks and gardens which made it an altogether pleasant time of the year to be in Buenos Aires, which I imagine in the height of summer turns into a sweltering concrete jungle. My travel companion and I wandered the neighborhoods, seeking out particular cemeteries, cathedrals, and art museums, and admiring the gardens, sculptures, and architecture as we walked. 

I must admit that my food experiences in Argentina, along with Chile and Uruguay, was a little disappointing. I am certain that there are some fantastically amazing restaurants to be found in the southern reaches of the Americas, just as there are to be found anywhere in the world really, but when it came to local cuisine, that which is readily available to a budget traveler such as myself, I was faced with the same three mediocre choices: pizza, pasta, sandwiches, and the occasional Empanada (which I love. It's true. Anything stuffed into a little pocked of dough and fried is alright with me). 

It is true that Argentina is well known for its beef, and perhaps rightly so, but even Argentina's beef failed to make me an enthusiastic carnivore, in large part because of the lack of imagination in what they do with it. (As a disclaimer, I should perhaps remind you that I was in only a handful of places in the country, and for not more than a couple of weeks total). There were plenty of Parrillas serving up grilled meat of all sorts and from all parts of the animal (I stuck to eating the more familiar parts like loins and avoided things like intestine), but that was the extent of the options: which piece of what animal you would like off the grill. No added anything. No sides, no fixins, no incorporating the meat into dishes. 

Perhaps traveling in places like India, Thailand, and Vietnam, has set my standards high for food while traveling. In these places, what I ate was intimately intertwined with my experience of the place, and in many ways defined it. Perhaps it would be silly to choose travel destinations based entirely on local cuisine, but this particular trip made me realize that it's a consideration to be added to the list. 

Sea Glass, Muddy Boots, and Cemeteries

PUNTA ARENAS, CHILE

I walked along the shore of the Strait of Magellan this morning, under the clearest blue sky I´ve seen in weeks. From the beach littered with rock and bone and shoe leather and plastic and tires, I picked up bits of sea glass. Though in reality, these bits of weathered glass are likely from bottles carelessly thrown on the beach in recent months, in a place such as this one, steeped in a rich history of exploration and discovery, it is impossible not to imagine a more interesting story for these bits of green and blue glass. As I drop another piece of pale blue glass in my pocket, I conjur up stories of shipwrecks, and imagine the glass sunk deep in the strait making its way to the surface and kicked about in the surf. Before long, I have a pocketful of the salty pieces, and retreat to the esplanade above.

I made my way back towards town, choosing my path carefully, navigating around the remnants of last month's flood. I step gingerly over the slick mud, taking small deliberate steps as though walking on ice, accutely aware that a fall would mean a very filthy pair of pants (a significant risk when one only has one pair).  Close to the water, it is hard to tell whether some streets are paved at all, and the mud stains 10-12 inches high on the building walls show just how bad the flooding must have been. On a few corners, I pass groups of city workers in blue jumpsuits and muck boots shoveling the great piles of mud into the backs on tiny flatbed trucks. Where this mud will end up, I have no idea. Closer to the square, the mud all but disappears, and using a curb I try to wipe as much mud from my shoes as possible before stepping into a bookstore.

In a port town that sees hoardes and hoardes of tourists and foreign transients each year, I am surprised by the lack of bookstores selling books in English. Bookstores in general seem scarce here, though there have been a number of shops with books about the area, which I would gladly read. I have never read Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia (though this seems to be an American travel classic, more than a regional one), and would love to read more about Darwin's voyage on the nearby Beagle Channel with Fitz-Roy. Alas, even these books are only in Spanish, and though my Spanish reading abilities far surpass my speaking abilities, and certainly my limited comprehension, I am not confident in my ability to read books at this level in Spanish without a dictionary at my side. In one shop, amidst the Spanish books on the indigenous peoples of the area, and the explorers who have passed through, I find a single copy of South, Ernest Shackleton's tale of his own Endurance Expedition in 1914-1916. I know the tale well, having read many other books on the topic, but am not certain that I've actually read his version. I snag the book for twice the U.S. retail price, and am all too pleased to do so. If I were inclined to have heroes, I would put Shackleton at the top of my list. His is surely one of the greatest tales of not only exploration and adventure and survival under dire circumstances, but also great leadership and sound character. There is a lightheartedness to his writing that is certainly a tribute to his attitude in even the worst circumstances, and surely one of the many reasons why not a single person on his doomed expedition perished in the course of two years. (If you don´t know the story to which I refer, I suggest you look into it. Immediately.)

Earlier this morning, I had visited the home of Sara Braun, a 19th century mansion, where there was a display of watercolors depicting Shackleton's long journey from the Weddell Sea to Punta Arenas. Afterwards, I had walked past the home of Charles Amherst Milward, a Brit who lived here in Punta Arenas and was host to Ernest Shackleton when he arrived here after his treacherous escape from the Antarctic, and from where Shackleton coordinated the rescue of his crew on Elephant Island. These are perhaps meager landmarks to such a great man, but still I always find it to be sort of an interesting experience to stand in a place of some importance in history, and ponder the events that took place in these places so long ago. Someday, I´d love to visit South Georgia island, home to the whaling station that was both Shackleton's jumping off point, and salvation at the end of the journey, and where he is now buried, having suffered a heart attack there enroute to Antarctica on a later expedition.

Instead the graves I visited today were more or less anonymous. I walked through the local cemetery. Though perhaps an unusual tourist destination, I found the cemetery to be a peaceful place for an afternoon stroll, amidst giant cedars, fragrant from the recent rain. The names on the often colorful headstones and mausoleums tell an interesting tale, with names from all over the world. Cemeteries are such an interesting peek into local customs as well. Here, family plots are tiny but bear the names of several generations. Unlike in the U.S. where modern cemeteries have headstones flush to the ground to make mowing easier, and have often stringent rules about what can be left at gravesites and for how long, here the plots are often the site of gardens maintained by the family, or covered in the bright colors of plastic flowers, pinwheels, and trinkets. Along the periphery of the cemetery, walls of small marble boxes line the fence. Though I know nothing of Chilean burial customs, when I was in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, I had walked through a very similar cemetery with my local Spanish teacher, who had explained that these tiny mausoleums of sorts along the edges belonged to the working class families who could not afford to purchase a family plot or to build one of the elaborate mausoleums that dotted the cemeteries. Instead, these families paid rent for the space in the cemetery, and with each death in the family, the previous remains were consolidated into tiny boxes and tucked into the marble cases, so that if one were to open one of these rental units, one could expect to find several boxes of bones, each one belonging to a different family member. As with any rental unit, the threat of eviction is real for unpaid bills. As I looked at the names and numbers today, I couldn´t help but think that they reminded me on urban tenement houses.

Cruise on the Beagle Channel

USHUAIA, ARGENTINA

Torres Del Paine National Park

PUNTA ARENAS, PATAGONIA, CHILE

We woke early on our last day in an attempt to see the granite towers at dawn. The towers for which Torres del Paine National Park is named are said to be especially spectacular in the early morning pink light. As I lay there and listen to the rain fall on the tent, and the wind howl through the trees, I was skeptical that we´d get the view we had hoped for. It was well before sunrise, which is not terribly remarkable given the late rising sun at this time of year. We hit the trail in full rain gear before seven and made our way up the steep rocky incline. About halfway up, the trees fall away, leaving us exposed to the brutal winds and driving icy rain. I thought of turning back several times, but having come so far, trodded on. At the top, the towers were just barely visible in the growing light, their peaks swathed in clouds, and clusters of hikers using rocks as meager wind breaks and sipping coffee from dented thermoses. I stayed just long enough to be utterly certain that the weather was not going to improve, and headed downhill shivering in my now soaked clothing. After collecting packs form the campsite, I and my two companions headed down the valley through soggy forests and then over the muddy, rocky slop of the horse trail on the lower hill. It was by far the most treacherous and the most miserable of the 6 days and 53 miles we spent in the valleys of the park. Fortunately, when we reached the bottom of the hill, the hotel staff at the very fancy hotel where we were to catch a bus hardly batted an eye  as we sloshed through the lobby in search of a place to change into dry clothes, and then camped out in their restaurant for nearly two hours, sipping hot chocolate and waiting for our ride.

I sat by the window watching the rain fall, glad to be dry once again, and lamenting just a little that the weather on our final day was not nearly as spectacular as the day before. Though over the course of six days we had a bit of everything- snow, rain, fierce winds, warm sun and cold nights- our fifth, and second-to-last day had been especially noteworthy. We had set off early that morning too, just as the sun was rising over the hills. In the east, the horizon glowed pink. As the sky brightened, the sunlight bounced off of the rocks surrounding us, and glinted off the distant glaciers. Behind us, a rainbow arched over the hanging lake, rising out of one of the massive rock monoliths, and plunged into the placid lake below. The days walk, our longest day at 7 1/2 hours, was remarkably still with hardly the faintest breeze, something we remarked on over and over again, comparing the utter calm to the previous two days where we struggled to keep upright when the wind would gust at 60 mph. We walked through open pasture, the result of an old wildfire, and watched the small sturdy horses munching grass. The trail climbed steadily, but the steep sections were mercifully short. We made our way up the valley, the third leg of the ¨W.¨ On the hillsides around us, waterfalls plunged into the icey blue glacial river below. The Magellanic Beech forests practically glowed in the afternoon light, their leaves red and yellow and orange. At one point we caught site of a pair of Magellanic woodpeckers, the largest of the woodpecker species, the male with his distinctive cherry red head. We ended the day as we had every other day: setting up tents, soaking tired feet in icey streams, and boiling water for dehydrated meals.

The week was altogether fantastic, in spite of our soggy ending. Patagonia, so far, has not disappointed, with her jaw dropping scenery and wild weather. From here I will head further south, though my time is extremely limited before I am due north in Buenos Aires in a few days.

Packing

Cincinnati, Ohio

Time to hit the road. 

Spring, or something like it.

CHICAGO, IL

When I returned to the northern hemisphere a couple of weeks ago, I braced myself for the return of winter to my life. After a brief tour of New Zealand, where summer was in full swing, I had grown accustomed to wearing sandals on warm, sunny afternoons. Early March in the Midwestern United States promised to be wet and cold, and so when I packed up my bags on the eve of my departure from Christchurch, NZ, I was sure to pack my down jacket on top, with wool socks in easy reach. But instead, when I arrived at the Cincinnati airport, I collected my bags and stepped out into a balmy evening, perfectly content in my light fleece jacket and sandals. The early darkness was the only clue that it was indeed still winter there. After a few days, I drove north to Chicago, passing through some strangely early spring tornadoes in Indiana. I brought with me a few jackets, my hat and gloves, once again expecting the bone chilling cold that is typical of March in Chicago. When I first arrived, there were indeed a few days that warranted warm coats and hats. Those days proved to be few, though, as the sun warmed the earth, and daffodils started peeking through the soil far earlier than usual.

Now I sit here in the grass with barefeet, tucked into the shade, avoiding the hot afternoon sun on this 80 degree day. My niece is clamoring for the pool, and trips to the beach, though a glance at the calendar would reveal it’s not yet even spring.

I find these bizarre seasonal temperature swings unsettling to say the least, and wonder what July will be like when it’s warm enough for swimming in March. 

Travel Rant

Los Angeles International Airport


The line for Starbucks stretches down the terminal, at least sixty grumpy people in desperate need of coffee on this monday morning. The tiny American Airlines terminal at LAX is entirely inadequate for the amount of people it supports. One of two restrooms is closed for construction, resulting in an enormous line for the one functioning bathroom. I feel a bit guilty for taking the extra time to change into jeans, brush my teeth, wash my face, and put on deodorant, while dozens wait in line, but two-thirds of the way into my 36 hour sojourn from New Zealand to Cincinnati, I cannot possibly pass up the opportunity to wash away a bit of the travel grit, and to feel like a human being again. I am fairly certain that my fellow passengers on the upcoming flights will also appreciate my efforts. 


I have just arrived at LAX after a 12 hour flight from Auckland. I have very strong feelings about LAX, and they are these: I hate LAX. I hate the layout that makes everything impossibly spread out, and inevitably strands one in tiny terminals for hours on end with little more than a newsstand and a Burger King. I hate that no one bothered to put up adequate signage in the one of the busiest airports in the country, so that bleary eyed after a long flight, I clear customs, drop my bag, and am deposited in a completely signless hallway with a couple hundred other people, and I have to rely on my barely functioning brain to remember how to proceed. I hate that there's no way to transfer between flights without having to go through security again. I hate that "security" in this country still involves taking off my shoes since several years on, TSA still hasn't figured out that barefoot travelers aren't safer, they're just more likely to spread fungal infections. I hate that "security" now involves a digital strip search while TSA employees, wielding the power that they have, bark orders at passengers about where to put their hands. And when I listen to one woman scream at a foreign traveler over and over again in such poorly articulated English that even I (native speaker) have a hard time understanding, I feel my blood pressure rise. Airport security is so atrocious in this country that it often makes me seriously consider emigrating, perhaps high- tailing it back to New Zealand. If nothing else, it makes me loathe coming home. 


After 12 hours on a plane with nine infants under 18 months in my cabin area, none of whom seemed particularly interested in sleeping, what I'd really like to do is get off the plane, wander down to my next gate, grab a coffee, a bagel, and a piece of fruit along the way, and find a nice quiet corner with a comfortable chair to wait for my next flight. LAX offers none of this. 


Now, about those nine infants. I am not a parent. I have never traveled on an airplane with a small child in tow. I have, however, spent a lifetime with a variety of children, and generally have great appreciation for them. I have also traveled A LOT. Often with children on the same vehicle, and have watched a lot of parents. I don't mind the babbling of little voices on buses, planes, and trains, and I don't mind the occasional swatting arm of a curious tot, jamming it's way between the seats. But dear parents, the fact that you have a little person in tow is no excuse for bad behavior. 


Regardless of your preferred sleep tactics at home, it is NEVER, EVER, NEVER acceptable to let your child "cry it out" on an airplane. EVER. The long flight and leaping time zones is going to totally screw up any sleep schedule anyway, and if you are not okay with the disruptions to your child's routine, you have no business traveling internationally with your infant. Whether you let your child cry it out at home is beside the point entirely. When you are in a tiny space with 300 other people, it is never going to be okay to let your child wail. Kids cry. Yep. Got it. But you better be making a valiant effort to quiet said crying child. Especially when it's the middle of the night, and your screaming child has now woken up and set off three other crying babies. Your crying child's need to learn to self-soothe has just fallen way off the bottom of the priority list when there are that many other people involved. 


Whew. Okay. There's my rant. And important notes for other travelers. Now, just two more flights, three more airports, and a week to get my body on the right time zone. 

Today

WANAKA, SOUTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND