Antarctic Anecdotes

  Getting the right mix of folks to winter-over the pole can be tricky thing.   There are lots of tales about people who didn’t quite make it through in the best of mental health.   Everyone usually starts out on good behavior, but even before the sun goes down small fissures start to appear, and you never know what six months of darkness will bring.   The most public example I can think of is the documentary “No Horizon Anymore,” which was shot over the 2009 winter here at the South Pole.   I’m sure there’s some editing taking place for dramatic effect, but during interviews you can literally see people deteriorate in their mood and affect over the course of time.   It’s actually kind of scary, and you watch with a sense of foreboding and concern that that person in the movie could be you.    (I’m our family expert on short-term good behavior.   I got engaged to my exes after dating each for only six months.   This is part of the reas...

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...