The ordinary day

Every day begins with a read out of the temperature and wind speeds. This morning at 6 am the outdoor temperature was -4'F. with a wind speed of 4 kph. An hour later the temperature had dropped to -17'F. After my morning meditation I pulled on my bunny boots and slipped into my parka. I went outside and walked across the drifts dusted with a fine sugary powder. In the east, there was a pink smudge where the sun was obscured by low clouds and freezing fog. This tender blush of color, unusual to the eye that has adapted to a typically horizon-less white, was touched with a familiar insight subdued; that dawn, in the lower latitudes will yield a spectacular spectrum of colors. This hushing orb of damask rose sat out in the distance just above the snow like a single giant thing. We shared our presences and disappeared, I into the garage, it into the fog.
The "gen shack" is a modular container unit about 15' long by 7 feet wide. It sits inside the first half of the garage tent. Inside the gen shack is the power plant, totally self contained.
I look around inside at all the gauges that make up the waste heat system, at the online engine, at the temperature inside the module, at the fuel level and then I navigate through the soft key screen for the information I need to log from the generator's interface program.
Once I am sure that all systems are well, I go back over the the Green house and read the sight glass on the water tank. The Green House has a 200 gallon capacity water tank plumbed directly from the snow melter which is located just outside of the gen shack. By gravity feed, the water runs through plumbing in insulated arctic piping called, Bondstrand, which is buried deep beneath the snow. To complement the insulating properties of the snow, there is also wired, heat trace; imagine an extension cord that does nothing else but create resistive loads high enough to safely generate heat.
If the tank is low, I simply open a ball valve and let the water fill the tank. This takes a few moments, so I usually sit down upon the stoop in the mechanical room and stare at the wall and think.
The next run is over to the Big House to check on the water status there. The water tank in the BH has a 400 gallon capacity, but this one requires a pig in order to fill it, which is pulled over behind the tractor once a week. The "Pig" is simply a 200 gallon tank mounted to a Nansen sled (think wood and sinew and Polar expeditions) with an electric pump. The "Pig" got it's name from the original mobile water sled which had been covered with spray foam insulation ( giving a most dimply surface effect) and painted pink. Since then, a snout and a tail has been added to the original "Pig", but as this old "Pig' now leaks, its duties are reserved for parades.
After the rounds, I find something that is generally working well, break it and begin diagnosing what went wrong with it after it and I had our confrontation. Usually it is something that I have asked, politely, to come out of hibernation in order to do work in sub zero temperatures.
Snow machines, snow blowers, fuel oil heaters, fuel pumps, electric pumps, door ways, and sleds all seem to suddenly wish they had never signed up for high latitude service. In order to get closer to the tropical desires they yearn for (I blame disillusionment on the snow blower for this one) they refuse to work; guaranteeing a tow or a lift inside.
After work we work out, eat, discuss the day, talk about our dreams for home, or anywhere warm, and go to bed with our books.
All night I am tuned into the hum of the online generator. I is nothing like being lulled to sleep by the waves. It is like being a cross country trucker with an autopilot waiting for an oncoming car.
Eventually I doze off. In the morning, instead of birds and leaves and insects or laundry flapping or chickens scratching there is the sound of the engine purring away.
And maybe a pink blur, warming in the east..............

Burying the Green House

At midnight last night I was still awake. Altitude induced insomnia frequently occurs. We are eating allot of avocados and bananas. This has nothing to do with altitude induced insomnia, but has everything to do with grammatical errors. We also make fresh squeezed citrus juice. The supply of these tropical fruits is abundant enough for us to continue with our "Pago Pago" diet for at least two more weeks. Tonight's diner menu:
Potato leek soup, Cornish game hen with wild rice and wilted spinach and beet salad with a balsamic reduction followed by stewed fruit and scones. For breakfast we have been religious about eating our oatmeal which we garnish with flax seed, walnuts, prunes, soy milk and maple syrup. There is an alternative motive to this abundance of fiber rich foods: the more the toilets flush the less likely there will be any freezing of the outfall pipes.
We have all been riding the spinner cycles (well, all of us except Steve. Since there are only three bikes, Steve "rides" the rowing machine). We work out to cadence specific rock music, selected by our staff of one time bike racing, Andy, or to the directions of the pro cyclist on the DVD. Recently Andy remembered that there are some videos of the Tour dE France around, so now we will be using these as the carrots in front of the donkey cart while at, over 10,500 feet above sea level, "adrenalized" music pushes us into anaerobic states of joy.
Oh and for work? Well, I screwed a 24x6 inch piece of plywood over an intake vent on a diesel powered heater which lives outside inside a plywood box. This, to prevent snow from filling the box over the winter. The heater is only used during the summer to heat the inside of another arched tent where the "do not freeze" science cargo is stored.
Meanwhile, the science technicians, Andy and Kate, launched a NOAA weather balloon with it's carefully calibrated ozone sonde. Steve and I watched. Then I closed the enormous garage door by hauling away on a chain. Glad to be able to utilize my old tall ship sail raising skills, I was nearly tempted to break into song:
"Cape Cod girls they have no combs.........."
But I did not.
Steve got out the soap and the vacuum and has begun talking about shampooing the carpets.
During lunch Andy and Kate have been watching original episodes of Flash Gordon. Steve now wants a shiny black cummerbund. I am secretly fashioning GBI (Galactic Bureau of Investigation)insignias for all of us to wear on our uniform......eh em, I mean, parkas.
Today it is snowing softly, There is not enough of a breeze to change the course of the light powder to anything other than 90 degrees straight down. That's not true, as I look out the window, the 2 knots of wind is just enough to put the Angel dander on a bit of a slant. Yes, Angel's have dandruff too; they don't try to cure their dandruff, but are pleased as heavenly punch that they do have it. This is a very noble act, or I could say, "Angelic" since all the skiers of the world have found such infinite amounts of joy from skiing down, in and through this stuff and are endlessly abundant with giving their prayers of thanks.
Now I must go skiing in order to prepare myself for my day's work.

The Book

A plywood bear painted black has an orange arrow, also painted, bending from the bears assumed mouth to its rump. I ski 3 miles out to this place; the whole distance over white snow. Some snow has formed into Styrofoam hardened drifts called, Sastruggi. over these my skis squeak. Pockets of needle crystals and fragile flakes rest undisturbed by the wind; through these my skis whisk. The sun, midway in the sky, moving through the four O' clock, post meridian, glints a blinking diamond. I push my sun glasses back onto a spot on my face where they will function and resume gliding towards the bear. I do not look behind me yet at the camp. Above me, high in the sky, an airplane passes.
Why am I here? I find the place strange. It is not a sea of water moving underneath a keel. We are not going anywhere but are stationary. A space station. That is a station, in space. Space can be defined by any amount of time and existence taking up room in a vessel. It does not have to be only the cold death of the heavens. If I take off my parka and my mittens, my skin will not immediately crack off of my bones. It would take a few minutes for frost nip to alert the central nervous system.
Steve wants to paint my boots red because they are purposefully, 2 sizes too big for me and look like the proverbial "clown" boot. I selected them this way in order to be able to wear not only socks, but a poly propylene boot liner, a softer, more pliable felt, if you will. After many years of experimenting with different arctic grade boots, this is the warmest set up yet. I am uncertain that the color red will attribute any more solar gain this late in the season, but am willing to be humorous.
Hard buildings: 2
That is, any structure that is built of wood or steel framing having either a wood or metal enclosure.
These are the Big House and the Green House. The Big House so called exhibiting its dominance over all other structures in the camp.
The green House so called to simplify. It's sides are green corrugated sheet metal. It is really made up of several ATTCO buildings pieced together. Presently it is beginning to get buried. We anticipate its total submersion beneath the snow before we are due to leave in early November. This is a normal recurrence. If buildings are not excavated and raised up on some sort of lifting risers, it is inevitable. The Big House was raised this summer. It now stands about 20 feet above the surface.
Soft buildings: 2
The garage, and the storage barn which are both Arctic grade arched tents with inuslated walls.
Temporary buildings: 5+
Shacks, science huts and freezer trenches.
Drifting snow: after just 3 days of winds above 15 knots, will create an entirely topographical landscape. We do not bother to push these drifts away with the 'dozer, or blast them into powdery dispersal by the snow blower, but let them lay, like dogs.
Steve is building a tunnel by the bent of his brow and the heft of a shovel. He has sawn blocks out of the snow and intends to erect a Gamble roof entrance to one of the 3 doors into the Green house that has been recently sealed shut due to drifitng.
I never really gave too much thought to my being in these places; whether out on the Bering sea amidst ice flows, or up at a tiny outpost on the middle of the high, inland ice cap on the world's largest island.
Why?
Lately I have begun to think more and more about the places I have chosen to exist within.
I have also begun to think more seriously about writing "that book". In order to help myself help myself, I have chosen to read classics such as Homer and Tolstoy, listen to Opera, via pod casts (thank you Steve) and to begin researching just how and why I would write a book.
Meanwhile, I ask you this:
Do you think that our contemporary, western society is generally obsessed with or is merely interested in danger (death)?..............
I type in commercial fishing on Amazon .com, in order to get an idea of what the market is selling on the subject of commercial fishing. No surprise, Spike walker and William McCloskey dominate the list. Further searchings bring up, The Deadliest Catch, and again, no surprise, another novel written by one of the TV series's own, Time Bandit. I give you an excerpt:
"Season after season , they bond and battle with its icy depths, determined to reap yet one more rewarding harvest while eluding the ever present threat of sudden, certain death."
Aren't we all mere mortals, or have I missed something?
I do not want to write a book about threatening or cheating death in exchange for commerce. I do not want to write a book about glory, sexism, cold water or dare.
I spent some time discussing, The Deadliest Catch with An antrhopoligist I met while in Kangerlussuaq. Chris, who teaches Arctic life- styles at Berkley felt that after watching so many seasons, it has become a sham. She then mentioned the lack of documented historical aspects on the Bering sea fisheries and encouraged me to at least write an outline.
Now, as I stand on what I presume is to be the lip of another adventure in my life, a time of yielding not to the migratory sequencing of cold white and desolate, but to the thrum of the giving green world and the philosophy of simplistic home steading, I, for the first time, critically begin to wonder, what is it that has motivated me to seek these edges of the fabric of life and why might these thoughts be of interest to the world?

The bowl of milk

No picture is needed today, only an image conjured up in your mind; you are stuck inside a bowl of milk. This is no ordinary bowl, otherwise, you could not fit into it, nor is it really the liquid milk. Perhaps you are muffled in so many layers of clothing that despite the heat of the American South, you feel no temperature extremes at all, you have become a neutral environment, like the insides of a cooler. You are standing in a cotton field during a Storm, but are anchored down firmly. All is white. Maybe you are stuck inside a flour mill during a tornado. This is what it is like here during 40 knots of wind.
The good thing about wind storms here is that the temperature rises. Instead og being flat calm and -20F, it is windy and 20 above.
We can still walk around outside, though from what the wind sounds like, some 30 feet above the surface in a building raised on iron legs, you wouldn't think it would be possible.
I pull my hood up and secure the goggles to my face; a windshield for human beings. I put my head down and find some delineating feature on the snow to follow, be it an old Caterpillar track from the tractor, or a ski runnel, now a raised relief, or the platforms of my earlier boot prints embossed along the surface.
I mark the force of the wind against my body and the direction I wish to travel, roughly 500 feet distant. By this dead reckoning I begin my course, glancing up occasionally to check for the dim gray blur of the garage that will soon appear ahead, looming; a moth in the dark illuminated by some brief moon glow.
This weather is exciting, though it prevents us from doing the chores we need to tend to outside, it allows for the human element to feel, in just 500 short feet, the likes of having crossed the north Atlantic on foot.
Well, OK that may be dramatic, still, I presume it gets the point across; life here is never dull. I wear a whistle on my parka, I carry a radio, we all keep track of each other's where abouts. I reflect upon the experience, standing still within its own being only long enough to try and understand it's gyrating mood. Long enough to feel the spindrift needling its way through my clothes. Enough to decide that there must be an awfully large kitten coming soon to lap up this milk from its ice cap sized bowl.
Reaching the safe harbor of the garage and kicking aside the powder fine drift that has formed so delicatly before the door, I enter into what seems to be the mouth of a whale. Dimly lit, membranous walls heaving and shaking as though alive, snow sliding down along the arches, like water over the back of a leviathan, I stomp off the snow and smile.