A Village in the Snow

McMurdo Station, Antarctica

In the last two weeks, I've put-in two camps in the wilds of Antarctica. I've been here long enough to take the endeavor in stride, but when I stop to think about it, it really is a crazy idea. Twice now a helicopter has dropped me off with a small pile of gear and a cohort or two, and flown off, leaving us behind in the great white. It is both daunting and empowering to know that it is only my own prowess that will allow me to establish a small village of sorts and thrive in the Antarctic.

My inaugral camp put-in was at Moore's Embayment, just over the mountains, in an area of deep snow accumulation and gloriously little wind. Round two was out at Taylor Glacier, where on more than one occasion I paused to ponder if it was indeed the most beautiful place I've ever stood on this planet. Camp put-ins are long days. The exhaustion of 14-16 hours of hard labor in sub-freezing temperatures overpowers the gleaming daylight that would normally keep me wide awake. There is nothing more glorious than a fluffy down sleeping bag at the end of a long day.

A Light Snow

ROSS ISLAND, ANTARCTICA

Yesterday, big fat snowflakes fell lazily from the sky, the blanket of snow growing ever deeper with each passing hour of the day. An unusual quiet fell over town with the added insulation and the decrease in traffic. Footprints were quickly filled in so that no matter where I walked I seemed to be the first to have tread there. It was definitely a day for mukluks. Real, falling snow is such a rare treat here. Instead, we are usually cursed with snow like todays: fierce gusts of wind kick up the snow that is already on the ground, obscuring buildings, the howling winds drowning out any other sound. The old snow, now having been iced over, is as abrasive as sand. I cringe against the assault on the skin of my exposed cheeks  during the short dash between buildings.

It has already been nearly a week since the first two flights of mainbody arrived, bringing new faces and the tiniest bit of mail. The other promised flights of this last week have yet to occur, stymied by the ongoing snow and poor visibility. Two days ago, on a venture out on the sea ice, the skies looked promising, but by late afternoon, low grey clouds moved in, settling over the sound and obliterating any possibility of landing a plane here.

As I sit typing, cold air seeps in through the aging window. The curtain flutters in the breeze, and the cold air grazes the back of my neck. On the rare still day, my dorm room is unbearably hot, but this antiquated building with its ancient boiler struggles to keep up against the Antarctic wind.

With any luck, the winds will change, the skies will clear, and the coming week will bring with it several hundred more people, pallets of mail, and lots of fresh produce, the likes of which I haven’t seen in over a month. 

The Longest Day

Sydney, Australia

The counter on my watch reads 39 hours, 23 minutes, and 45...46...47 seconds. I started this counter when my mother delivered me to the Cincinnati airport. Since then I have passed through four airports and been on as many planes. It will be at least 7 hours more until I reach my destination of Christchurch, New Zealand. I am hours past tired and now drift between delirious and slightly loopy. I sway slightly when I walk, my exhaustion throwing off my balance. My stomach twists and turns, having been fed when it should be sleeping, and not having got enough rest to complete its normal digestive duties. I have wiled away the last 10 hours in an airport lounge which thankfully includes good food, free drinks, wi-fi, reasonably comfortable chairs, and particularly delightful shower facilities. My best intentions to go into Sydney were stymied by hurricane force winds and torrential downpour. The scroll on the weather channel read: "heavy thundery downpour predicted," not exactly sight-seeing weather. And so instead, I have spent the day camped out in the corner of a lounge surrounded by fellow travelers. 

Every few minutes, another delay is announced over the loudspeaker, presumably thanks to the lousy weather. So far, our evening flight has only been pushed back twenty minutes, but I expect as darkness falls and the hour approaches, that the flight will continue to slide back. With each delay, our arrival into Christchurch slides further and further past midnight. 

I am fantasizing about a bed and a pillow, my need for sleep having been hardly satisfying by the drifting, restless, 20-minute bouts of sleep on the last transoceanic flight. My ability to string together coherent sentences is being seriously challenged, and I am skeptical that anything I have written here makes the least bit of sense. I'll try again after I've had some real sleep. Whenever that might happen. 

Morning Swim

PARKER, CO

In the hour between the end of swim team practice and the beginning of the water aerobics class for seniors, the pool is blissfully quiet. I take the last of the empty lanes and slink into the water. The water is like bathwater, lacking the shock of a cold pool, but nauseating after a few laps. It is somewhat of a stretch to call the other lane occupants swimmers, for while they wear traditional bathing costumes and obviously are in a swimming pool, the movements they engage in are hardly considered any conventional swimming stroke. To my right, a woman holds onto a pool noodle walking slowly from one end of the pool to the other. To my left, a woman holds a kickboard but does nothing of the sort- her legs drag loosely behind her, and I can't discern exactly how she is being propelled through the water at all. I push off the wall, stretch my arms out in front of me, and complete my first lap, and when I stand to adjust my goggles, notice that the women in the adjacent lanes appear to be in exactly the same spot that I left them. I lick the insides of my goggles before replacing them, a somewhat bizarre habit I developed after reading that saliva can be an effective defogger. My usual slow and sloppy strokes seem remarkably efficient compared to the other swimmers in the pool today, and I smirk underwater at the absurdity of me being the fastest one in the pool. After  a few laps, I notice that another woman has joined the lane next to me. I don't see her at first, but rather taste her perfumed lotion in the water. I pull a little harder to put some distance between us, but unfortunately the heavily floral taste lingers in my mouth. Not long after, I notice the increase of water shoes in the shallow end, signaling the approaching start of the water aerobics class. Just before the music blares, I pull myself out of the pool, the sanctity of my morning workout now spoiled by 80's pop music.

Ramblings and Renovations

PARKER, CO

A cool wind blows through the trees, rustling the last of the dead leaves that cling hopelessly to the branches. I was drawn outside by the pink sky, being chased by a tidal wave of slate blue clouds mimicking a distant ocean. Overhead, a flock of geese, flying in three cacophonous V's flies south for the night. If tomorrow is like every other day, they will fly north in the morning. Sixty degrees today, twenty degrees tomorrow- you can't really blame the geese for being a little confused by the concept of a seasonal migration. The geese and barren trees are silhouetted against the sherbet sky, which holds on just a little while longer before disappearing with the last of the sunlight. Left behind is the moody sky of twilight, ushering in the night.

The darkness means a drop in temperature, and the end of painting trim, now done in the still-lightless but warmer-than-the-garage addition on the house. A few hours ago, it almost looked like someone might live here- the kitchen was momentarily devoid of power tools, and the living room contained exactly the normal components of a living room: couch. tv. ottoman. rug. dying christmas tree. But now things have returned to my version of normal- there's a kitchen table blocking the front door, an air compressor in the living room, putty knives and spackle on the kitchen counter. There's a dishwasher in what I hope one day will be a mudroom, a shop-vac under the dining room table, and a spare couch in the space that will one day only be the dining room. 

It is month six of life in a construction zone. Massive improvements have been made- there is no longer a dog door in the wall of the master bedroom, or a shower in the third bedroom (no, no. not ensuite. just IN the room). The raw sewage smell is gone, along with the animal odors. The three upstairs rooms are so close to being done I can taste it. But it is the tiny finishing details that I perhaps hate the most, and so baseboards remain uncaulked, curtain rods unhung, doors untrimmed. Ah, yes, the improvements are great. And I am thankful for the friends who saw this house in its initial tears-inducing state, for each time they arrive they call to attention the things that have changed. As I look around however, all I can see is the to-do list. The pantry with neither baseboards nor a door (nevermind that the pantry didn't exist at all when we moved in). There's still a secret unusable door behind the refrigerator, and a gaping hole where the antiquated microwave used to be. The steps still bear the scars of the awful emerald green carpet that previously blanketed the house. A giant 4'x8' mirror mocks me from the great room wall, too big for me to remove without reinforcements. 

Someday, I hope that the laundry room walls will be one texture, and one color. Someday I hope that the railings on the stairs won't threaten to give way with every touch. Someday, I hope that all power tools will live in the garage. All the time. Someday, I hope that there won't be a cool breeze blowing through the front door when its closed. Some day I hope that there will be art hanging on the walls instead of patches of spackle in need of sanding. And while I doubt this particular house will ever feel like home to me, I hope that someday it will feel less like a project, and more like a house that people could actually live in. And walk around barefoot without the fear of stepping on nails and staples. A girl can dream. *Sigh*