At Last, The Pole
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 novelty of flying
as cargo had worn off, but the flight was no less comfortable; while the cabin
was colder than our flight from Christchurch, the Big Red and snow pants coupled
with a layer of normal outdoor clothing and long underwear kept me toasty warm. There was plenty of room to lay about, and
the rhythmic hum of the eight-bladed props quickly lulled me into an always
welcome nap.
I had also
been briefed that the best way to get upfront and see the view out the cockpit was
to bring snacks, so my fellow traveler and I stocked our carry-on bags with slices of cake
and a variety of cookies swiped from the McMurdo galley before departure. The clinic also donated a box of Girl
Scout cookies to the cause. (They were
Toffee-Tastic.) Pilots can be bought
with sugar, and our scheme worked to perfection.
The panoramic
view from the cockpit was breathtaking.
The Transantarctic Mountains were straight ahead and extended to the
left as far as one could see, with the massive bulk of the Beardmore Glacier flanking
us to our right. It was the first time I
really saw Antarctica from the air. As
you leave McMurdo, the landscape of the ice shelf is simply a featureless plain
of white. The sun is bright and
unfiltered; with nothing to absorb the light on the bleached terrain it reflects
painfully back through the aircraft window, and when the discomfort forces you
to turn away back to the inside of the plane you’re blanketed by a terrifying
darkness until your eyes adapt and you regain your bearings.
(It’s only
then that I really understood the dangers of “snow blindness.” In the polar
regions, and especially at altitude, the reflection of the sun off the ice and
snow is so strong it can cause exquisitely painful ultraviolet burns to the
cornea. Inuit people have long understood this, and have
developed wooden goggles with small horizontal slits over the eyes to minimize
exposures. Of course, Europeans rarely
took advice from millennia of aboriginal experiences. There’s a tale of Dr. Edward Wilson of the
Scott Expedition becoming snow blind after drawing sketches of the terrain facing
the blinding sun, and then man-hauling a sledge across the Antarctic plains while
on morphine, blindfolded, and fantasizing about walking through the woods.)
The
Transantarctic Range that divides the ice shelf from the polar plateau is nothing
short of magnificent, and all the more so for their pristine nature. Just as
Adam was given the task of naming all of God’s creation, on the other seven
continents humankind has labeled it all as well. Every mountain has name, as does every hill,
every valley, every river, spring, and creek. And where man has gone to see and
name things he’s left a mark, be it a village, road, home, clearing, or even
just a trail. That’s what makes these
mountains all the more remarkable. They
are pristine. Not yet reached. Perhaps observed by air, perhaps measured by
satellite, but no names. No traces. Just peak after peak after peak coated with the
purest white snow on the leeward side, the frozen icing blown away by the
northern gales to reveal steep, sloping tableaus of barren volcanic rock on the
windward side. Below the peaks the ice
flows down in waves, not at a speed you can truly comprehend but that you
nevertheless see as the ice lies on the plains in overlapping scallops like the
tides stood still on a frigid beach. You
can spot places where the ice has carried away the gravel and rock, depositing
the soils on small plateaus before moving off again, forming clefts and valleys
as proof of the power of a glacier. It’s
the kind of landscape you see in photos of other planets, where you look at
them and wonder how astronomers are able to say that the features they see are caused
by moving ice; looking down from the plane, you realize that of course they
know because I’ve just seen it myself.
It’s awe-inspiring to think that you’re looking at an alien landscape,
in many ways no different than what the first explorers to the icy moons of
Neptune might see in centuries hence, but that you’re seeing it here, now, with
your own eyes. And the peaks that you
feel you could just reach out your hand?
Knowing that if you were standing on one of these peaks, you would be
the first human to in all our collective history to see that view, that your footprint
would be the first one there, that yours would be the first breath ever to condense
into fog in that rarefied altitude, only adds to the transcendence of it
all. And looking back, it started me thinking
about the moments in our lives, and our collective existence, in a new and better
way.
(Did I imply
that there were eight continents a few lines back? I did indeed.
It turns out that instead of the
seven continents I learned about in school, there
are now eight with the addition of Zealandia, which is mostly underwater but includes
New Zealand and a handful of Pacific Islands. There are also now five oceans,
with the Southern Ocean off the coast of Antarctica joining the classic quartet
of the Pacific, Atlantic, Indian, and Arctic waters. Perhaps this is offset by noting that while there
are now only eight planets with the demotion of Pluto, but we’ve added at least
six new dwarf planets with the roll-off-the-tongue monikers such as Makemake, Gonggong,
Haumea, and Quaoar in the outer reaches of our Solar System. And that’s just geography and astronomy. The kingdoms of life I learned have been tucked
under the domains Archaea, Bacteria, and Eukarya; and plasma has joined solids,
liquids, and gases as basic states of matter.
And that’s just in the sciences.
We’re all familiar with the proliferation of pronouns and acronyms to
describe one’s sex, gender, ethnic origin, and/or sexual preferences. While these changes are certainly valid in
their own right…you should undoubtedly be able to use a term that accurately
describes who you are…for an old guy like me it’s getting to the point where
you can’t tell the players without a scorecard.
I feel like anyone over 55 should not only be able to order off the Senior’s
Menu at Denny’s, but should also be provided with a waiver to hand out to
anyone born after 1990 that says “I’ll try to remember what I’m supposed to
say, but I’m old. I’ll screw it up. I don’t mean it. Forgive me.”)
An hour
after we traverse the range, the props feather back, and the loadmaster reminds
us to fasten our seat belt. Soon enough
we feel the skis hit the ice absent the usual thump of the wheels, but with a feeling
of uncontrollable momentum, like a winter sports novice who’s found himself on
an icy black trail. The sensation is
momentary; the aircraft steadies, back under the pilot’s sure hand. Skis have no brakes, so on touchdown the
engines are put in reverse. I’m pushed
backwards and need to hold onto the webbing of my bench seat so I don’t topple
over, and we come to a sudden stop. The door
is wedged ajar, and with each step amidships towards the open hatch the air
noticeably cools. It’s blindingly bright,
and I can barely make out the crewman holding a rope to my left to stop me from
walking into the propeller. I see him
gesture me turn right. I wave thanks, pivot
as directed, see two people in red parkas and one in a dancing penguin suit
flanking the big blue “Welcome” sign, and I’m there.
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