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.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Foood, Glorious Food!

Weird Science

The French Connection