Antarctic Anecdotes

It’s February 15.   I’ve been at the South Pole for a bit over two weeks, and had ownership of the Medical Clinic for the last ten days.   My predecessor flew out last week and, according to the Arbiter of All Things True and Meaningful…and by that, of course, I mean Facebook… he has gleefully resumed his retirement among the hoary heads of Margaritaville.   But today my adventure really begins, because today is the day that nearly half our number go home and the last flight leaves for the summer.   It’s Closing Day. I had mentioned in a previous post that the numbers of folks at both McMurdo and the Pole are seasonal.   The height of summer at the Pole usually finds the place full to the gills with nearly 200 people, and more in temporary huts, tents, and other housing if there are special construction or scientific projects going on during the daylight months.   By the time of my arrival at the end of January the number had fallen to 140, and it’s been ...

When one first gets to the Pole, one wants to immediately see the Pole.   But where you get off the airplane on the two-mile skiway is not the Pole.   Nor is the Amundsen-Scott Station the Pole. Both are near the Pole, and at the tail end of the summer season I can see the Pole bathed in sunlight at any time day or night from my berthing window.   But none of these is the same as being the Pole.    You’ve made that 14,000 mile journey from your suburban North Florida home, leaving the BGFE and the last Busy Bee far behind, and you’re desperate to finish the journey.   If you don’t get there, and soon, you feel frustrated and empty, emotionally spent after all the effort spent getting here.   It’s as if you were with Captain Scott and, having manhauled sledges over glaciers and crevasses and the Antarctic plateau for nearly 800 miles and days without end, your leader simply stopped when he saw Amundsen’s flag flying mere yards away and said, “Well, lads...

The day began in shades of gray…given the 24 hours of light, the prior day never really ended.   But the struggling sun gave hope that perhaps today was the day I would reach my goal.   Ivan the Terra Bus took me back towards Williams Field (the official designation for the skiway on the ice shelf), and I waited for the “go-no go” decision in the passenger terminal.   That’s a generous word for the two conjoined portable buildings mostly inhabited by aircrew and furnished with a few industrial tables.   Catering is provided by a small galley featuring “Willy Chili,” and restrooms are available for your convenience in an unheated shack 30 yards down the road.   Preflight entertainment features an old VCR machine playing Paulie Shore’s “You’re in the Army Now.”   I opted for Kool-Aid as my beverage of choice.   It felt safe.   Fortunately for me (as my tolerance for Paulie Shore is none), the skies cleared and I boarded the plane.   The novel...

Your first view of Antarctica is glorious.   Close to midnight, you emerge from the dimmed lights of the aircraft interior directly into the brightest, harshest sun you’ve ever seen.   The intensity of the light doesn’t match the chill in the air; while it’s a balmy two positive-digit summer day, the light and the cold are so incongruous that the conflict doesn’t even register.   It’s all sun.   You shade your eyes as you feel not just warmth, but as if every single ray emanating from our solar powerhouse is winging its’ way through you.   The air smells of blue like the cloudless sky.   You turn left and see nothing but an endless plain of snow; turn right, and over the wing of your chariot looms the steaming cone of Mt. Erebus, the largest active volcano in the world.   The expanse is of the purest white, the kind of white when the soft snow falls and lies still for just a moment before it becomes stained with terrestrial hues.   The plain seems...