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.
