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.