WASHINGTON, DC
Tonight I sat on the steps of the U.S. Capitol as the shadow of the earth eclipsed the moon. Three Capitol police were my only company as the moon darkened. The occasional runner and a few tourists meandered by on the plaza between the Capitol and the Library of Congress, but otherwise the normally busy area was quiet. It is my favorite time of the day to be out on the National Mall or around any of the landmark buildings, museums, and monuments. Though never deserted, once night falls, the mall is quiet save the rustling of the wind in the trees, and the only lights are the spotlights on the glistening white stone museums and memorials. Tonight, the air was cool enough for a sweatshirt, a pleasant reprieve from the relentless summer heat that has pursued right on through September, so that I didn't even notice that the autumn equinox had occurred.
As the moon reddened, I leaned back, my elbows propped on the wide stone steps, and thought about the last time I watched a blood moon eclipse. It was August of 2007, and I was on my 11th month in Antarctica. I laid in the snow on a hillside away from the lights of station, and watched the moon change. As the moon grew darker and redder, the auroras seem to grow brighter and brighter. Even then, I knew full well that it was quite possibly the most spectacular thing I will ever witness in my lifetime. I laid in the snow until I couldn't possibly stand the cold anymore, and very reluctantly climbed back into the Pisten Bully with numb fingers and toes.
Tonight's moon could hardly compete with that, especially with the light pollution from the city. But it was beautiful nonetheless. When the last sliver of white moonlight disappeared, I hopped on my bike and rode down a few blocks to the Smithsonian Air and Space museum where the Observatory was open tonight. By the time I locked my bike and ascended the steps, the previously patchy clouds had engulfed the sky entirely, obliterating the eclipsed moon altogether. I waited for nearly an hour as visitors tried to catch a glimpse of the moon between breaks in the clouds through the large telescope, but eventually gave up, and settled for what I had seen with my naked eye.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
The Middle
DES MOINES, IOWA
Ahead of me, a sea of wind turbines gleam white against the darkening dusky skies. In the rearview mirror, the sky puts up one last fight of brilliant colors before the sun sinks below the horizon. After 12 hours of driving, I pull into Des Moines just in time for the Iowa State Fair. I've got a schedule to keep though, so I won't be partaking in any carnival rides, which means that I'm enjoying all of the hotel room rate hikes and none of the funnel cakes.
Over the last couple of days, I packed up everything I own, which breaks down to roughly 40% art supplies, 30% kitchen supplies, and 30% ball jars. There's a suitcase or two of clothes and a bike too, and that's about it. Early this morning I threw all of it into the back of an absurdly oversized rental truck and drove away from the little house in the suburbs that has absorbed my blood, sweat, and tears over the last two years. Today was the first of many long days over the next week as I make my way across the country, dropping in on various family members, enroute to Washington, DC, where after a 13 year academic hiatus, I will be returning to school.
Friday, May 22, 2015
A Week in the Serbian Countryside
DONJA TOPONICA, SERBIA
The young German swings his shovel wildly, stumbling over the pile of dirt which he is loading into a wheelbarrow one small shovel at a time. I cringe each time he turns, afraid he will clock one of the others working in the fairly small area, but they are aware of his erratic movements and give him a wide berth. Someone suggests that he take a break, but he replies "I just want to go home so I will work until its done." He is breathing heavily, and his cheeks are flushed so they match his sunburned shoulders. Only when he picks up a mattock and starts swinging a little too close to his own feet and those of others do I step in and insist that he is done and I will take over. He is tired and hungry and no longer focused or coordinated and its only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. A field trip to a Serbian hospital is not on the agenda for this week.
I work alongside Alexander who has very particular preferences about the way one should work, though I secretly wonder if he isn't also slightly uncomfortable with a girl swinging a mattock. But we bicker a little all in good humor, he scolding me in Serbian, me answering in English. I stop to wipe the sweat from my brow and look at my watch. We have only been at this for 2 1/2 hours, and there is still plenty of light left in the day. If not for the mosquitoes, working at dusk would prove quite pleasant. Most of the other volunteers have stepped away from the project, swigging sugary fruit drinks or sitting cross-legged in the cool grass. Two other women half-heartedly pull rocks out of the dirt and sling them onto the growing pile, while the members of the local group work diligently.
I arrived at this work camp unsure of what to expect, but assuming that the work would be steady. Perhaps not grueling, but good sweaty garden and trail work. Instead the week has so far been dotted with small projects, often with inadequate work for everyone in the group to participate. There have been more breaks than work, lots of siestas and lingering at meals, socializing in the afternoons and evenings along with a few meandering walks through the surrounding countryside and neighboring villages. Though initially frustrated, I have made peace with the pace, and am doing my best to enjoy the time. But when the others begrudge the work or complain about the difficulty, I am curious what brought them here. One South Korean fella left after one day, hopping on a bus with a muttered excuse about needing to run into the city and returning the next day. Of course he never returned, and I wonder if the story would not have been repeated with some of the others had the work been what was described to me- approximately 6 hours a day.
So while "work" camp seems to be a bit of a misnomer, the week is providing a glimpse of life in Serbia, a place and culture that I previously knew very little about. I only knew of the country in the context of war criminals. The guide book I borrowed describes Serbia as an international pariah, and I think that's about right, and fairly unfortunate. There were certainly some Serbs who did terrible and horrible things, but the citizens here are no more supporters of war than any other individuals. Living through war is not a pleasant affair for any civilians, no matter what side of the battle on which they find themselves. But war is far from here. For now, this is a sleepy village in the south where every house no matter how basic or luxurious has a sizeable garden and at least a chicken or two scratching in the yard. The school is a bustling affair, more or less the same everywhere- middle school girls giggle and gossip across the yard from the boys. Younger boys laugh as they emerge from the washrooms with soaking wet shirts, clearly having found mischief without the watchful eye of the teacher. The hosts of this camp are an ambitious group of twenty-somethings who have good intentions to contribute to their community and preserve village life. (Like so many places, Serbian villages often watch their children leave for the big city, leaving the villages slowly aging and fading away.) The group has been amiable and welcoming, interested in what brings people here and what we think. They seem incredibly aware of their questionable reputation in the world, and are anxious to change it. There are two Germans here, and I think about the fact that at one time, Germany was the epitome of evil in the world, but 70 years later, Germans do not carry with them that connotation. I assume that it will be so with Serbia as well. Someday, barring further conflict, they will shake this part of their past, and the world may be able to see Serbia as another foreign land worth visiting, its people worth knowing.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
City Walls
DUBROVNIK, CROATIA
City walls seem like such ancient things, relics from another time. But the last time these city walls were under siege was in my lifetime, not quite 24 years ago. From the top of the city walls, one can look out over the rooftops and peer down into the narrow streets of the stone and tile city snug within its walls. On the other side the clear turquoise water of the Adriatic Sea shimmers in the sun. As I follow the walls behind a long line of tourists from all over the globe, it is hard to imagine the time not so long ago when the city was under siege. Siege. Even the word sounds ancient, a word for the history books and not for the modern tongue. Though the old city walls proved meager in their ability to guard against the weapons of modern warfare, still the city sought shelter inside its walls. I went to an excellent photo exhibit in the city at a gallery called War Photo Ltd. The permanent collection features photos from the siege of Dubrovnik that began in the weeks before Christmas in 1991, as well as portraits from Bosnia, Kosovo, and Croatia as a whole, in their wars for independence. There is also a gallery dedicated to photos from even more recent wars. Right now there is a selection of photos from Ukraine, and other recent exhibits have included Syria, Palestine, and the Congo. The photos are all at once beautiful and terrible, both stunning and heartbreaking. I look at the faces in these photos, the portraits of families who lived for months in stairwells and basements, who sought water first from cisterns and drainpipes and later delivery trucks, who lived in fear and by candlelight for nearly seven months, and I find it impossible to think of war as either a necessary evil or as something which could ever be considered just. I look at the faces of Dubrovnik from a different time, and I see their pain and exhaustion and grief, and I wonder where they are now. Though many survivors fled the city, many stayed and I am certain they are here now. At a time when the city was constantly under fire and basic necessities were hard to come by, could they ever have imagined that not even 25 years later their city would look like this? More or less intact, gift shops displaying trinkets and postcards, restaurants clamoring for the attention of throngs of tourists who follow tour guides bearing flags from Germany, France, Bahrain, and Japan? Certainly there are scars here that as a foreigner, I do not see. But in spite of the pain and strife that might still linger, this city is thriving. Surely that is the best tribute to those who lost their lives defending this city.
City walls seem like such ancient things, relics from another time. But the last time these city walls were under siege was in my lifetime, not quite 24 years ago. From the top of the city walls, one can look out over the rooftops and peer down into the narrow streets of the stone and tile city snug within its walls. On the other side the clear turquoise water of the Adriatic Sea shimmers in the sun. As I follow the walls behind a long line of tourists from all over the globe, it is hard to imagine the time not so long ago when the city was under siege. Siege. Even the word sounds ancient, a word for the history books and not for the modern tongue. Though the old city walls proved meager in their ability to guard against the weapons of modern warfare, still the city sought shelter inside its walls. I went to an excellent photo exhibit in the city at a gallery called War Photo Ltd. The permanent collection features photos from the siege of Dubrovnik that began in the weeks before Christmas in 1991, as well as portraits from Bosnia, Kosovo, and Croatia as a whole, in their wars for independence. There is also a gallery dedicated to photos from even more recent wars. Right now there is a selection of photos from Ukraine, and other recent exhibits have included Syria, Palestine, and the Congo. The photos are all at once beautiful and terrible, both stunning and heartbreaking. I look at the faces in these photos, the portraits of families who lived for months in stairwells and basements, who sought water first from cisterns and drainpipes and later delivery trucks, who lived in fear and by candlelight for nearly seven months, and I find it impossible to think of war as either a necessary evil or as something which could ever be considered just. I look at the faces of Dubrovnik from a different time, and I see their pain and exhaustion and grief, and I wonder where they are now. Though many survivors fled the city, many stayed and I am certain they are here now. At a time when the city was constantly under fire and basic necessities were hard to come by, could they ever have imagined that not even 25 years later their city would look like this? More or less intact, gift shops displaying trinkets and postcards, restaurants clamoring for the attention of throngs of tourists who follow tour guides bearing flags from Germany, France, Bahrain, and Japan? Certainly there are scars here that as a foreigner, I do not see. But in spite of the pain and strife that might still linger, this city is thriving. Surely that is the best tribute to those who lost their lives defending this city.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Up in the Air
BUCHAREST, ROMANIA
After a sleepless night, I watched the red sun rise over Bucharest from the back of the cab. Whether it was the late night tea, the anxiety of sleeping through an alarm, or the lingering jet lag, there was no more than a short nap to be had during the wee hours of the morning. Despite the resulting sleepy stupor, I have stumbled my way through another foreign airport and am now enroute to another strange place.
A little over three months ago, I sat on a small Airbus with my nose pressed up against the window, watching as the plane left behind the eternal daylight of my austral summer in the Antarctic and slid into the darkness. A line in the sky between the haze of twilight and the deep cerulean of night was nearly as pronounced as the one on the flight path screen that showed a pixelated white airplane icon crossing from the light half of the planet onto the dark. Somewhere below the Queen Victoria Range stretched farther and farther behind me. Since then there has been what seems like a constant parade of airplanes and airports. After a blissful month of hiking and road tripping around the South Island of New Zealand, I skipped through Cincinnati hugging nieces and nephews and grandmothers, then mosied only slightly longer through Chicago gossiping with a sister and wrassling a different niece & nephew pair. Since then there's been Washington DC, Chicago the sequel, rural Illinois, Sacramento, and Lake Tahoe. I have not spent more than 8 or 9 nights in the same place since I left Antarctica on February 3, and nor will I until the end of June. Aside from the bouts of laundry in between, it has hardly been worth it to unpack.
Now it is the Carpathian Mountains that pass beneath me unseen, blanketed by a thick cloud cover. I had hoped for glimpses of peaks, maybe even the monasteries and castles tucked in their valleys, but alas it is only cotton candy I see. The obstruction lets me off the hook and I sink into the narrow seat and close my eyes, no longer fighting the weight of my eyelids. In another hour I will land in Prague, a geographically bizarre layover on my flight path from Bucharest to Dubrovnik.
After a sleepless night, I watched the red sun rise over Bucharest from the back of the cab. Whether it was the late night tea, the anxiety of sleeping through an alarm, or the lingering jet lag, there was no more than a short nap to be had during the wee hours of the morning. Despite the resulting sleepy stupor, I have stumbled my way through another foreign airport and am now enroute to another strange place.
A little over three months ago, I sat on a small Airbus with my nose pressed up against the window, watching as the plane left behind the eternal daylight of my austral summer in the Antarctic and slid into the darkness. A line in the sky between the haze of twilight and the deep cerulean of night was nearly as pronounced as the one on the flight path screen that showed a pixelated white airplane icon crossing from the light half of the planet onto the dark. Somewhere below the Queen Victoria Range stretched farther and farther behind me. Since then there has been what seems like a constant parade of airplanes and airports. After a blissful month of hiking and road tripping around the South Island of New Zealand, I skipped through Cincinnati hugging nieces and nephews and grandmothers, then mosied only slightly longer through Chicago gossiping with a sister and wrassling a different niece & nephew pair. Since then there's been Washington DC, Chicago the sequel, rural Illinois, Sacramento, and Lake Tahoe. I have not spent more than 8 or 9 nights in the same place since I left Antarctica on February 3, and nor will I until the end of June. Aside from the bouts of laundry in between, it has hardly been worth it to unpack.
Now it is the Carpathian Mountains that pass beneath me unseen, blanketed by a thick cloud cover. I had hoped for glimpses of peaks, maybe even the monasteries and castles tucked in their valleys, but alas it is only cotton candy I see. The obstruction lets me off the hook and I sink into the narrow seat and close my eyes, no longer fighting the weight of my eyelids. In another hour I will land in Prague, a geographically bizarre layover on my flight path from Bucharest to Dubrovnik.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Don't Be Weird....
CHRISTCHURCH, NEW ZEALAND
After my first season in Antarctica, nearly ten years ago, upon my return to New Zealand, I found myself overcome by allergies- constant sneezing, itchy watery eyes, the whole bit. It was my first foray into allergies in my then 25 years on the planet. Apparently after six months in a cold hostile environment, the overwhelming amount of live green growing things was just too much for my system to handle.
Thankfully, I am no longer besieged by allergies when I arrive on soil, but the overwhelming nature of New Zealand in the summertime is still just as profound. Aside from brief stops to ditch the Antarctic cold weather gear and a hot shower, my first stop in Christchurch is always the Botanic Gardens. It is the end of summer here, and the garden is in full bloom. Not only is the grass green and lush, and the garden beds awash in the colors and shapes of all manner of blooms, but there are also children, and dogs, and birds, and ducks, and ice cream, and all manner of things that I haven't seen in far too long. I slip off my sandals as soon as I am inside the iron gate, wriggling my toes in the grass. Inevitably I snap a million photos of flowers, so in awe that these colors and fragrances exist in the world. And the whole time, as I meander through the garden paths, I say over and over to myself "Don't be weird. Don't be weird. Keep it together." Because what I really want to do is consume this place. I want to roll in the grass and smell every.single.flower. I want to tackle the puppies and chase the ducks. I want to hug random people's babies. I want to lick the trees and maybe eat a dahlia. It is overwhelming. The sudden energy of a million stimuli previously missing from my existence leaves me feeling like I will burst at the seams.
After my first season in Antarctica, nearly ten years ago, upon my return to New Zealand, I found myself overcome by allergies- constant sneezing, itchy watery eyes, the whole bit. It was my first foray into allergies in my then 25 years on the planet. Apparently after six months in a cold hostile environment, the overwhelming amount of live green growing things was just too much for my system to handle.
Thankfully, I am no longer besieged by allergies when I arrive on soil, but the overwhelming nature of New Zealand in the summertime is still just as profound. Aside from brief stops to ditch the Antarctic cold weather gear and a hot shower, my first stop in Christchurch is always the Botanic Gardens. It is the end of summer here, and the garden is in full bloom. Not only is the grass green and lush, and the garden beds awash in the colors and shapes of all manner of blooms, but there are also children, and dogs, and birds, and ducks, and ice cream, and all manner of things that I haven't seen in far too long. I slip off my sandals as soon as I am inside the iron gate, wriggling my toes in the grass. Inevitably I snap a million photos of flowers, so in awe that these colors and fragrances exist in the world. And the whole time, as I meander through the garden paths, I say over and over to myself "Don't be weird. Don't be weird. Keep it together." Because what I really want to do is consume this place. I want to roll in the grass and smell every.single.flower. I want to tackle the puppies and chase the ducks. I want to hug random people's babies. I want to lick the trees and maybe eat a dahlia. It is overwhelming. The sudden energy of a million stimuli previously missing from my existence leaves me feeling like I will burst at the seams.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Flat White is nice, but Mountains are better.
McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA
In two days I will leave this great white place, maybe not for good, but with no foreseeable return. I am leaving several weeks earlier than usual, and before the great exodus of summer friends. The annual resupply vessel is still at the ice pier, now being reloaded with a year's worth of trash and broken vehicles.
The sea ice has not yet given way entirely to open water- the weather has been far too docile for that. The thinning of the sea ice by nature, and the breaking of the ice by man has led to some open places and an ever-nearing ice edge. With the closer water comes more penguins, seals, skuas, and whales, but as long as the ice persists to some extent, the sea world effect is somewhat limited.
The summer has been a busy one, hence my long absence here. I have spent more time in the field in the last two months than I have here in town, which has been equal parts amazing and exhausting.
In December I traveled to the South Pole where I waited through a grueling two weeks of weather, mechanical, and mystery delays, before accompanying a science group to a field site in East Antarctica. Nearly four-hundred miles east of the geographic South Pole, the site was vast in it's emptiness. We were delivered to the flat white by a Twin Otter with a small pile of gear and a slightly excessive pile of food. We established a tiny village comprised of a 8' x 16' arched Endurance tent, 4 mountain tents for sleeping, and a toilet tent. While I melted snow for water, the science team worked to install a magnetometer, which seemed to mostly involve a lot of digging. I was largely chained to the stove in order to produce enough food and water to keep everyone happy and healthy in the -20F weather, but occasionally I would slip out of the tent and wander off toward the horizon in one direction or another. There is nothing like the vast expanse of snow to make one feel tiny in the world. There is certainly strange beauty in the swirling patterns in the snow laid down by the constant wind. There is something truly awe-inspiring about standing in a place and being able to see the curvature of the earth falling away at the horizon rather than any natural or human-made obstruction.
After five days on the polar plateau, a tiny dot appeared on the horizon and as it grew closer, the whir of propellers assaulted my ears. We loaded all of our gear into the back of the plane and took off, leaving nothing more than a dozen flags marking the buried crates of science equipment. Flying over our campsite on the way out, there was little remnant of the home we had occupied, which is of course the way it ought to be. We were delivered back to the South Pole at the very cusp of the new year. While I dragged my tired self to the elevated station in search of a bed, the squeals of delighted revelers echoed off the building. The following day, a small miracle in the shape of a Hercules LC-130 aircraft occurred, delivering me back to McMurdo just in time for the slightly delayed New Years celebration. From the belly of the Herc, as we flew into McMurdo, I could just pick out the tips of the peaks of the Royal Society Mountains. I felt a small swell in my chest. Oh the mountains! How I'd missed them so. I stepped off the plane and was surprised to be greeted by a good friend working the airfield that day. I practically tackled her, so happy to see a familiar face again. Three weeks away can feel so long. I rode home in the shuttle van, so unbelievably happy to find myself at the base of these snowy mountains once again, and anticipating the joy of a holiday weekend with friends. Flat white is nice, but mountains, oh mountains are so much better.
The annual New Year's music festival, complete with midnight countdown on January 2, was a glorious day. Mostly sunny, but surprisingly cold, I spent the day dancing with friends, occasionally ducking into the bar or dorms for warmth and libations.
January carried on with the groan of "return season" when the science groups are wrapping up their projects, and en masse return to McMurdo. The hundreds of tents, sleeping bags, coolers, thermoses, ice axes, GPS units, and tool kits we sent out at the beginning of the season return now smelling like dirty feet and rotting food and covered in sand and grit. It's the less glamorous side of field support.
With the end of the science season also come camp close-outs, when we head into the field to take down the last tents, and clean out the last food, and lash down the sleds, flags, and tools, that will spend the winter out. I traveled first to FANG, the acclimatization camp for those heading to the summit of Mt. Erebus, and then to the Dry Valleys to close two camps there. All glorious in their own right, and accompanied by other amazing Berg Field Center staffers, these trips are lots of work and incredibly fun.
Two days ago, I returned from closing a couple of camps in the Dry Valleys. The Dry Valleys are located just across the sound from McMurdo, a forty minute helicopter ride from the station. The return flight over the ice this time of year invariably means wildlife sightings. Along the ice edge we saw dozens of Orcas, my first real sightings of these big beautiful beasts in the wild. Spy-hopping along the edge, they were hunting for seals, which gave us some amazing glimpses of their slick white streaked undersides. I was amazed to watch the Adelie penguins hop into the water practically on top of the Orcas. Apparently Orcas prefer the taste of seals. We spotted a few Minke whales in the channel carved out by the icebreaker, and dozens of skuas flying overhead looking for a good meal.
Over the coming weeks, the ice will break out further, most likely bringing the whales right up to the station, but I will not be here to see it. The helicopter ride was a good last hurrah, a last glimpse of the amazing-ness that is this place that has been home for so long. I am not entirely certain what my future holds, but I suspect it will be a little less cold and icey. I won't miss the brutal wind in my face. But there are plenty of things I will miss- the scenery, wildlife, and people here continually put me in awe of the world.
Now there is an empty suitcase demanding to be filled, and I am dreaming of my bare feet in the grass, and avocadoes and sushi and pomegranates.
PS. Before I go, can I just mention that after leaving FANG, the helo flew us over the crater of Mt. Erebus, the southernmost active volcano in the world, and it was kind of amazing, and also the thing I've most wanted to do since I started working in the Antarctic nearly ten years ago? Okay. That's it. On to warmer climates.
In two days I will leave this great white place, maybe not for good, but with no foreseeable return. I am leaving several weeks earlier than usual, and before the great exodus of summer friends. The annual resupply vessel is still at the ice pier, now being reloaded with a year's worth of trash and broken vehicles.
The sea ice has not yet given way entirely to open water- the weather has been far too docile for that. The thinning of the sea ice by nature, and the breaking of the ice by man has led to some open places and an ever-nearing ice edge. With the closer water comes more penguins, seals, skuas, and whales, but as long as the ice persists to some extent, the sea world effect is somewhat limited.
The summer has been a busy one, hence my long absence here. I have spent more time in the field in the last two months than I have here in town, which has been equal parts amazing and exhausting.
In December I traveled to the South Pole where I waited through a grueling two weeks of weather, mechanical, and mystery delays, before accompanying a science group to a field site in East Antarctica. Nearly four-hundred miles east of the geographic South Pole, the site was vast in it's emptiness. We were delivered to the flat white by a Twin Otter with a small pile of gear and a slightly excessive pile of food. We established a tiny village comprised of a 8' x 16' arched Endurance tent, 4 mountain tents for sleeping, and a toilet tent. While I melted snow for water, the science team worked to install a magnetometer, which seemed to mostly involve a lot of digging. I was largely chained to the stove in order to produce enough food and water to keep everyone happy and healthy in the -20F weather, but occasionally I would slip out of the tent and wander off toward the horizon in one direction or another. There is nothing like the vast expanse of snow to make one feel tiny in the world. There is certainly strange beauty in the swirling patterns in the snow laid down by the constant wind. There is something truly awe-inspiring about standing in a place and being able to see the curvature of the earth falling away at the horizon rather than any natural or human-made obstruction.
After five days on the polar plateau, a tiny dot appeared on the horizon and as it grew closer, the whir of propellers assaulted my ears. We loaded all of our gear into the back of the plane and took off, leaving nothing more than a dozen flags marking the buried crates of science equipment. Flying over our campsite on the way out, there was little remnant of the home we had occupied, which is of course the way it ought to be. We were delivered back to the South Pole at the very cusp of the new year. While I dragged my tired self to the elevated station in search of a bed, the squeals of delighted revelers echoed off the building. The following day, a small miracle in the shape of a Hercules LC-130 aircraft occurred, delivering me back to McMurdo just in time for the slightly delayed New Years celebration. From the belly of the Herc, as we flew into McMurdo, I could just pick out the tips of the peaks of the Royal Society Mountains. I felt a small swell in my chest. Oh the mountains! How I'd missed them so. I stepped off the plane and was surprised to be greeted by a good friend working the airfield that day. I practically tackled her, so happy to see a familiar face again. Three weeks away can feel so long. I rode home in the shuttle van, so unbelievably happy to find myself at the base of these snowy mountains once again, and anticipating the joy of a holiday weekend with friends. Flat white is nice, but mountains, oh mountains are so much better.
The annual New Year's music festival, complete with midnight countdown on January 2, was a glorious day. Mostly sunny, but surprisingly cold, I spent the day dancing with friends, occasionally ducking into the bar or dorms for warmth and libations.
January carried on with the groan of "return season" when the science groups are wrapping up their projects, and en masse return to McMurdo. The hundreds of tents, sleeping bags, coolers, thermoses, ice axes, GPS units, and tool kits we sent out at the beginning of the season return now smelling like dirty feet and rotting food and covered in sand and grit. It's the less glamorous side of field support.
With the end of the science season also come camp close-outs, when we head into the field to take down the last tents, and clean out the last food, and lash down the sleds, flags, and tools, that will spend the winter out. I traveled first to FANG, the acclimatization camp for those heading to the summit of Mt. Erebus, and then to the Dry Valleys to close two camps there. All glorious in their own right, and accompanied by other amazing Berg Field Center staffers, these trips are lots of work and incredibly fun.
Two days ago, I returned from closing a couple of camps in the Dry Valleys. The Dry Valleys are located just across the sound from McMurdo, a forty minute helicopter ride from the station. The return flight over the ice this time of year invariably means wildlife sightings. Along the ice edge we saw dozens of Orcas, my first real sightings of these big beautiful beasts in the wild. Spy-hopping along the edge, they were hunting for seals, which gave us some amazing glimpses of their slick white streaked undersides. I was amazed to watch the Adelie penguins hop into the water practically on top of the Orcas. Apparently Orcas prefer the taste of seals. We spotted a few Minke whales in the channel carved out by the icebreaker, and dozens of skuas flying overhead looking for a good meal.
Over the coming weeks, the ice will break out further, most likely bringing the whales right up to the station, but I will not be here to see it. The helicopter ride was a good last hurrah, a last glimpse of the amazing-ness that is this place that has been home for so long. I am not entirely certain what my future holds, but I suspect it will be a little less cold and icey. I won't miss the brutal wind in my face. But there are plenty of things I will miss- the scenery, wildlife, and people here continually put me in awe of the world.
Now there is an empty suitcase demanding to be filled, and I am dreaming of my bare feet in the grass, and avocadoes and sushi and pomegranates.
PS. Before I go, can I just mention that after leaving FANG, the helo flew us over the crater of Mt. Erebus, the southernmost active volcano in the world, and it was kind of amazing, and also the thing I've most wanted to do since I started working in the Antarctic nearly ten years ago? Okay. That's it. On to warmer climates.
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