Dusk

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

The evening sky is grayer than it has been in quite some time. It has been snowing for hours now, and as the flakes flutter past my window, I am reminded of nighttime winter drives, with the snow illuminated in headlights and streetlights. It is 11 pm, and the sky appears almost dusky. The low sun and grey skies tempt me with their taste of evening skies. After almost five months of broad daylight, I am craving the depth of night. If all goes well, in less than 24 hours, I will be plunged into the dark night sky in Christchurch, New Zealand.

I have spent the better part of the last week and a half sorting and packing and cleaning, wrapping up loose ends at work, and making travel plans. The transition from this sheltered life in a barren land to traveling freely in lush New Zealand is a significant one. Planning out the details of where to stay and how to get around is already overwhelming, not to mention the shell shock of having to actually pay for things again. The transition is leaving me a bit scattered, and I have set aside any other goals or intentions for the week.

This afternoon, the hobbled Green Wave docked at the meager ice pier. The ice pier this year has been an ongoing problem child. The original ice pier drifted out to sea in a storm, and so a new one was started. Warm temperatures kept the layers from freezing solid, leaving most of the nine feet of ice a slushy mess, hardly to be trusted for driving vehicles on. The aging Green Wave, this year’s cargo vessel, arrived nearly empty because of the need to carry it’s own floating causeway system to replace the inadequate pier. The work of offloading and assembling the floating pier system has begun, but appears to be moving painfully slow. After years of jobs directly tied to the offload of the cargo ship, it is both strange and wonderful to be leaving before the real work begins.

I would love to see this progress. I’d love to see the shipping channel open further. I’d love to see the influx of orcas and emperors. But it is time to go. And more than the Antarctic wildlife, and the comings and goings of boat season, I can’t wait to put my feet in the grass, to inhale the scent of anything growing, to indulge in fresh food and beer on tap, to bask in a warm sun, and to fall asleep in the dark of night. There is this moment, when the plane touches down, that the first hint of humidity seeps into the aircraft. It happens before any door is opened. And there is so much relief in that moment, to have made it back to the world. The following day always brings an allergy attack (and I don’t have allergies anywhere else in the world) as my system is overwhelmed entirely, but in those first moments, there is nothing but joy and relief.

The snow has stopped for the timebeing, but the wind howls, and whitecaps rise on the ocean. As I fall asleep tonight, I will cross my fingers and hope with all my might that the weather calms, and the skies clear, so that my hulking metal chariot arrives on schedule tomorrow.