90 Degrees South, at last

THE SOUTH POLE, ANTARCTICA

After three hours in flight, the Herc had lulled me to near sleep, if only the seats would allow. Anxiously awaiting our landing at the South Pole, the loadmaster announced over the loudspeaker that poor visibility would keep us from landing, and we entered a holding pattern. Flying in circles over the South Pole, I thought about how cruel it would be to have come so close to the pole and not set foot there. I have been a part of the U.S. Antarctic Program for six years now, and I have often bit my tongue as well wishers comment on my life at the pole. I have spent all of my years in the program at McMurdo Station, a solid 850 miles from the pole.

But at last, on Thursday, sometime in the late afternoon, I set foot on the southernmost point on the planet, where the horizon stretches out endlessly and every direction is North. The air was dry and cold, and when I inhaled deeply, I sputtered a little. Frozen eyelashes and icy wisps of hair were quickly upon me, though mine lacked quite the artistic effect as Molly’s, my polie friend, whose breath froze in droplets on the long strands of hair that hung down around her shoulders, trapped close to her chin by her hood and a headset. I trudged through the snow, as quick as my giant boots and the deep snow would allow, headed to the new station, a sleek gunmetal grey structure that looks straight out of a futuristic science fiction film.

A long hallway stretches from one end to the other, with three wings branching off on one side. The hall was empty. I stopped for a moment outside the station greenhouse, a small room that glowed purple, and produces enough fresh vegetables to keep the station happy, especially in the winter, when there are no flights to provide fresh food. I meandered a bit further. A dark alcove houses a number of rubber stamps, and I quickly settled on one with which to stamp my passport. Our short time on the ground would not allow enough time to check out the galley or the reading rooms or any of the berthing, all places I’d love to see. Instead I made my way into the “beer can,” the roundhouse that caps off the far end of the station, its interior steps descending to the subterranean tunnels that link the station with the heavy equipment shop, and other outlying work centers. I stepped out of the dark into the glaring afternoon sun, and made my way up the slope to the geographic pole. It would seem that the station is already being buried by the snow.

The marker for the geographic pole is moved every year to account for the movement of the ice sheet that is the polar plateau. This year’s marker, a gold orb, marks the 100^th anniversary of Roald Amundsen and Robert Falcon Scott’s race to the pole. The nearby sign documents each man’s comment upon arrival, and the sign is flanked by two flags, the British flag on Scott’s side, and inexplicably, the American flag on Amundsen’s side.

I walked further on to the ceremonial pole, marked by the classic candy striped pole and shiny silver ball, surrounded by a half circle of flags, representing the nations that have signed the Antarctic treaty. It really is set up just for tourists, and I am all too happy to have my photo snapped. It is joyful indeed to bound about the snow in the far reaches of the planet. Perhaps someday I will work here- I do think I’d love the tiny community- but whether that should happen or not, I have at least set foot there and have the photos to prove it.