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.