Down The Rabbit Hole To Winterland
September 9, 2019
The second runway, Williams Field, is over the ridge of the peninsula. There are cameras that have live updates and overlook town on either side, from Arrival Heights where NASA does secret experiments (probably listening for the aliens under the ice), and from Observation Hill which has a memorial cross to polar adventurer, Robert Falcon Scott.
The cameras can be viewed from by anyone at https://www.usap.gov/videoclipsandmaps/mcmwebcam.cfm
The whole of the place is an alchemy of contrasts... the white of the snow, and the deep red-black of the volcanic rock... the industrial practicality of the buildings, decorated with anything and everything, for there is art everywhere... the business of science and aviation, beside revelry and celebration... military veterans, and and university grads, and everything in between.
* * *
After a 45 minute ride in from the airfield on "Ivan the Terrabus" and other rag-tag vehicles, we shuffled into the Galley for our incomers briefings. The winter-over crew and the incoming folk began to mingle.
I heard over and over, "Welcome Home" amidst hugs and laughter, while many of us newcomers were welcomed with handshakes. The Ice People, by and large, enthusiastically invite the first-years to share the magic of the place. The kitchen staff had made hot pizza to celebrate our arrival after the long delay, and those coming from the north brought "freshies" to give to the winter-over
crew. Fresh fruit becomes a rarity after April when what is left from the last of the transition season flights in March leave. I saw a very beardy fellow in at one table captivated as he held an orange to his nose and just breathed. Another placid girl broke into ecstatic giggles with the guy who brought her a massive bar of dark chocolate wrapped in gold.
It is astonishingly huge.
Passing through the hatch of the C-17 and down onto the ice, it is utterly flat, and distance becomes and illusion. The rise of Ross Island is about seven miles north as the crow flies, were such birds to dare. But further out, the mountains rise up fifty to sixty miles away, and for all my brain can conceive, it seems as if it were five or six. Neither tree nor stone breaks the plain of the Ross Ice Shelf, and as I stand beneath a sky more immense than any I ever saw in Arizona or Nevada, I am no more than a pin prick on a sheet of paper. The four massive engines of the plane are merely idling, and I can hear the peculiar squeek-crunch of the snow beneath my boots sharp and loud. At 60 degrees below freezing, the air is so cold and dry and cuts as I breathe in. The steam from my breath freezes instantly on my eyelashes.
And as I walk to the bus, I can't stop laughing.
* * *
Passing through the hatch of the C-17 and down onto the ice, it is utterly flat, and distance becomes and illusion. The rise of Ross Island is about seven miles north as the crow flies, were such birds to dare. But further out, the mountains rise up fifty to sixty miles away, and for all my brain can conceive, it seems as if it were five or six. Neither tree nor stone breaks the plain of the Ross Ice Shelf, and as I stand beneath a sky more immense than any I ever saw in Arizona or Nevada, I am no more than a pin prick on a sheet of paper. The four massive engines of the plane are merely idling, and I can hear the peculiar squeek-crunch of the snow beneath my boots sharp and loud. At 60 degrees below freezing, the air is so cold and dry and cuts as I breathe in. The steam from my breath freezes instantly on my eyelashes.
And as I walk to the bus, I can't stop laughing.
* * *
After two weeks of delays, the storms cleared long enough to get a window in. Some score souls gathered in the Antarctic Centre to check in baggage and prep gear to fly. After the final briefing, we had a couple of hours before departure to go eat breakfast and make any last purchases at the grocery store next door. The parkas are ever so full of large pockets in which to sequester chocolate, fresh fruit, small containers of favorite alcohol, and cheese, all of which become rare on the other side of the looking glass. When we boarded, old acquaintances and new reunited for the journey, some five hours south. Some slept, some read, some stood in the open cargo space and reminisced over the previous summer season. When we finally crossed the cold expanse of the southern ocean, the pilots invited passengers to come briefly to the cockpit to take pictures over the frozen ocean and the mountains along the coast that we followed in toward the Ross Sea.
McMurdo lies at 77 degrees 51 minutes S by 166 degrees 40 minutes E, at the tip of a volcanic rock peninsula 30 miles from the foot of Mt. Erebus. It is the last place possible for a ship to go, and that only in austral summer when the ice of McMurdo sound breaks up enough to clear. The sea ice is about 10 feet thick at this point late in the season. The Ross Ice Shelf is about the size of Texas, and the whole of the continent is roughly the size of the United States and Mexico together. "Mac Town" is small enough to traverse end to end in about ten minutes, and is a ramshackle assortment of buildings from small smoke huts to three story buildings. The main dorms are three story buildings, with two room suites sharing a bathroom. We are billeted two to a room. Some of the furniture has to be older than half the people here, but it is solid and servicable, if marked with the character of time.
The largest structure is Building 155 - The Galley. The great blue bulk of The Galley squats in the
middle of the camp and serves as dining facility, meeting hall, admin office, camp store (well stocked
with alcohol of many kinds), internet kiosk, equipment issue, costume closet (Halloween is a big deal down here), and housing for all associated staff. The radio station is located here as well with four channels, including three AFN (Armed Forces Network) stations and the local station which is entirely run by volunteers who work the station in their off time. I am told it has the largest record collection still existing in the southern hemisphere.
There is an 8000 volume library with very cozy couches and chairs in one of the dorms, and a maker space
in building 155. The aviation building, which includes the weather section, is in building 165, and has the best view in camp, with two platform decks and a walkway betwixt them. When the weather is amenable, you can look out over the sound at the Royal Society Mountains sixty miles distant, and out at the lights of Phoenix Runway. We launch the weather balloons from the frozen shore of McMurdo sound, just down the hill from our office.
There is an 8000 volume library with very cozy couches and chairs in one of the dorms, and a maker space
The second runway, Williams Field, is over the ridge of the peninsula. There are cameras that have live updates and overlook town on either side, from Arrival Heights where NASA does secret experiments (probably listening for the aliens under the ice), and from Observation Hill which has a memorial cross to polar adventurer, Robert Falcon Scott.The cameras can be viewed from by anyone at https://www.usap.gov/videoclipsandmaps/mcmwebcam.cfm
The whole of the place is an alchemy of contrasts... the white of the snow, and the deep red-black of the volcanic rock... the industrial practicality of the buildings, decorated with anything and everything, for there is art everywhere... the business of science and aviation, beside revelry and celebration... military veterans, and and university grads, and everything in between.
* * *
After a 45 minute ride in from the airfield on "Ivan the Terrabus" and other rag-tag vehicles, we shuffled into the Galley for our incomers briefings. The winter-over crew and the incoming folk began to mingle.
I heard over and over, "Welcome Home" amidst hugs and laughter, while many of us newcomers were welcomed with handshakes. The Ice People, by and large, enthusiastically invite the first-years to share the magic of the place. The kitchen staff had made hot pizza to celebrate our arrival after the long delay, and those coming from the north brought "freshies" to give to the winter-over
crew. Fresh fruit becomes a rarity after April when what is left from the last of the transition season flights in March leave. I saw a very beardy fellow in at one table captivated as he held an orange to his nose and just breathed. Another placid girl broke into ecstatic giggles with the guy who brought her a massive bar of dark chocolate wrapped in gold.
Over the last three days, at meals and gatherings in the Galley dining room in the evenings over tea, I have talked to several people, all possessed of a peregrine soul.
The physical therapist is the lead volunteer running the library and the maker space. She has wintered over more than once, and has several seasons under her belt. She is quiet and friendly, and
talks about the slower, quieter, but more personal feel of winter season as the station draws down to about 100 just to keep the station in order. She will leave to go back to the world on the other side of the looking glass in October, until it is again time to come back for the long arctic night.
One fellow I had dinner with is a carpenter, who has come here to drive heavy equipment for the Polar Traverse. The main bulk of supplies, including the fuel for the generators at the South Pole, is hauled in a mechanized caravan, dragging gigantic sleds called "magic carpets". They carry 20,000 gallon fuel bladders and shipping containers with gear and the mobile shelters for the Traverse
crews. The first one of the season takes about five weeks south, and three back north to McMurdo. The other two or three of the season take slightly less time, after the mountaineers have blazed the trails and dangerous spots have been cleared for the ice road.
Another gave up her job as an HR manager after she took a southern ocean cruise and saw Antarctica from a distance. A shutterbug, she fell in love with the skies, and the ice burgs. After taking an
arctic plunge off the ship, the ice was in her blood. She followed it's song, and took the first job with an openning that she could get. She works in the kitchen, and was delighted when we invited her to shoot from the deck on the roof of 165.
And another yet is a seasoned, quiet Kiwi, tall and lean, and bearing a resemblence to Sam Elliot. He has wintered over twice and done seasonal tours for several years. I asked him where home was and he laconically answered, "New Zealand". After inquiring further, he told me that he was not sure where he told me that one year, while on the ice he learned that his house had been sold. He adjusted the bronze and silver and copper bracelet on his wrist, twisted and capped on each end with wolf heads. It was styled like a piece of ancient Scythian jewelry. He went on to explain that not long after returning, he split from his wife, though he was reticent to give further details. Home, for him, has largely been The Ice for the last two years.
A friend of his explained that she had suffered a very messy divorced a little over a year ago. When she got the call to fill an opening at McMurdo, she burned all the pictures, documents, and her wedding certificate, and came for her first season last summer. She was welcomed when she returned.
I have heard similar stories from several others. I wonder how many who come here are leaving the wreck of once-upon-a-time dreams and happiness, of broken love, and broken hopes? In the starkness, The Ice seems to cut away those hurts. It numbs the pain, even as it vivifies. The harshness, the remoteness, the creativity and adventurous spirits that are so common here, bring people together with the warmth of a handshake and a cup of tea. It is not a safe place for the careless or foolish, and thus, not unlike those deserts in Afghanistan and Iraq, it seems to pull people
together.
Welcome to The Ice.
The physical therapist is the lead volunteer running the library and the maker space. She has wintered over more than once, and has several seasons under her belt. She is quiet and friendly, and
talks about the slower, quieter, but more personal feel of winter season as the station draws down to about 100 just to keep the station in order. She will leave to go back to the world on the other side of the looking glass in October, until it is again time to come back for the long arctic night.
One fellow I had dinner with is a carpenter, who has come here to drive heavy equipment for the Polar Traverse. The main bulk of supplies, including the fuel for the generators at the South Pole, is hauled in a mechanized caravan, dragging gigantic sleds called "magic carpets". They carry 20,000 gallon fuel bladders and shipping containers with gear and the mobile shelters for the Traverse
crews. The first one of the season takes about five weeks south, and three back north to McMurdo. The other two or three of the season take slightly less time, after the mountaineers have blazed the trails and dangerous spots have been cleared for the ice road.
Another gave up her job as an HR manager after she took a southern ocean cruise and saw Antarctica from a distance. A shutterbug, she fell in love with the skies, and the ice burgs. After taking an
arctic plunge off the ship, the ice was in her blood. She followed it's song, and took the first job with an openning that she could get. She works in the kitchen, and was delighted when we invited her to shoot from the deck on the roof of 165.
And another yet is a seasoned, quiet Kiwi, tall and lean, and bearing a resemblence to Sam Elliot. He has wintered over twice and done seasonal tours for several years. I asked him where home was and he laconically answered, "New Zealand". After inquiring further, he told me that he was not sure where he told me that one year, while on the ice he learned that his house had been sold. He adjusted the bronze and silver and copper bracelet on his wrist, twisted and capped on each end with wolf heads. It was styled like a piece of ancient Scythian jewelry. He went on to explain that not long after returning, he split from his wife, though he was reticent to give further details. Home, for him, has largely been The Ice for the last two years.
A friend of his explained that she had suffered a very messy divorced a little over a year ago. When she got the call to fill an opening at McMurdo, she burned all the pictures, documents, and her wedding certificate, and came for her first season last summer. She was welcomed when she returned.
I have heard similar stories from several others. I wonder how many who come here are leaving the wreck of once-upon-a-time dreams and happiness, of broken love, and broken hopes? In the starkness, The Ice seems to cut away those hurts. It numbs the pain, even as it vivifies. The harshness, the remoteness, the creativity and adventurous spirits that are so common here, bring people together with the warmth of a handshake and a cup of tea. It is not a safe place for the careless or foolish, and thus, not unlike those deserts in Afghanistan and Iraq, it seems to pull people
together.
Welcome to The Ice.
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