Adaptation or-The Mid Season Blues.

For the past three winters my body has been in the northern hemisphere where winter has come with it's gradual descent into darkness. At Summit station, on the Greenland ice cap the night belongs to the winter. It feels natural; twilight lingers, lingers, blushes and then dims completely. The moon walks around in the sky full of stars and the northern lights dance to a silent pulsing drum beat. Our life slows down but we do not hibernate. The cold is tight and crisp; a clean snapping white bed sheet in a house without heat.

Now we are once again in the southern hemisphere where the sun is king and a relentless one at that. "Round and around he paces beaming rays from ever higher and higher domains in the sky blue sky. The snow, once soft and blanketing, offered a gentler, muffled white, is nothing now but clods of frozen melting dirt. Streams run down the sides of the roads gurgling. Soon the Norwegian ice breaker, Oden will come smashing down the sea ice where just yesterday planes were still landing. Whales and penguins will follow in the slow- blocky wake.

The Sun's constant radiance drives this energy making people crazy. Bosses are moody or seem manic. The town is either gummy with mud and the streets wet with water, or there is thin ice and cold wind. Nobody seems to have the ability to stop and chat. Friends that haven't seen one another in years wave hurriedly as each other passes by shouting, "we still have to get together "!

Everywhere forklifts are forking and lifting their back up alarms shrilling with agitation and warning. Large front- end loaders grind up the steep hill bearing pallets of cargo. Red, muddy pick up trucks full of leather faces, sun glasses, ball caps and beards zoom around to work on: plumbing, broken office furniture, ice machines, air compressors, doorknobs. Helicopters whirl and thrum, they lift into the air to depart, beat time and return from far off magical places: Mount Erebus's lava lakes, the algal platted shores of lake Fryxell, Marble point, Black island, Blood Falls.

It is difficult to get enough rest during the summer solstice at the bottom of the world. The base operates 24-7. Always there is equipment driving around stinking up the air with exhaust, splashing mud; there are people walking around working. On the stoop of the fuels barn, my hand on the worn bronze door latch, I pause to watch the light gilded, crossing over the mountains woven with flossing silk cloud scud.

Steve thinks that the reason most of the people drink so much down here is to fill the void of dullness with the unpredictable. They have come to Antarctica expecting grand adventures, excitement, bizarre encounters at the bottom of the world. They want to go diving with giant fish, sledding with emperor penguins, cruising on ice breakers- whale watching. They hope to get to someday be sent out to help assist some scientists. They threaten to get fired by climbing mountains pronounced off limits, or visiting any one of the all too numerously unsanctioned special places of interest and merit and mind boggling alluring beauty.

But it is, after all a job. Those of us who have come here to earn a living as a blue collar worker on this brown industrialized chunk of rock -that just so happens to be surrounded by the pristine dazzle of what everyone thinks of when they think of Antarctica- have made a compromise: for our often under appreciated, and therefore, disgruntled efforts, we might see an iceberg, or a penguin or two.

Part-way

Steve has written from the traverse: things are "boring" and for that he "is glad". Every night they shut down around 7:30 pm. After fueling the equipment for the next day and shoveling snow into the melter, for water, they enjoy each others company by warming a frozen, pre-made meal. Every morning they begin rolling before 8 a.m.. Steve eats as healthfully as he is able to; instant oatmeal packets for breakfast, left overs for lunch. In his tractor he stretches, listens to Danish lessons and does isometric exercises with a large rubber band. The convoy is now almost half way to the South Pole- having covered almost 500 miles out of the one thousand (and some odd change) they still have ahead. Steve seems to be happy or at least, has maintained his sense of humor. We miss each other much more than usual. Normally the one of us that has gone away to work misses the other but the other is then home with "the cat" living the life of a millionaire. This time we are both in the Antarctic, that is, we are both away from home and working; but while I remain behind here, in McMurdo, on Ross Island, Steve is "crossing the ocean of white"- if you will- "sailing to the Pole".

Because nobody thinks to ask about what they could never imagine life in Antarctica to be like, the things that are weird are worth mentioning: a person, walking out from a building dressed in a huge red parka eating a banana, mud puddles, getting mail order catalogs from the post office which we don't even get at home, fashionably dressed people attending thanksgiving diner in Manhattan styles; fur ruffs, dresses, suits and ties. A piper played his bag pipes- kilt and all.

An ER doc gave a disturbingly frank lecture- complete with cadaver and not yet cadaver (but looking like soon to be a cadaver) slides form the ER rooms he has served in over in Iraq. It was certainly one of those, drives the point home - types of lectures in which you walk away feeling a bit sorry for yourself that you're NOT being shot at because everyone else in the world seems to be being shot at. Then the reality strikes you and an overwhelming feeling of thankfulness swells up from inside; our life is pretty darn simple, pretty darn fantastic-and we are getting paid. It irks the be-jesus out of me to hear people complaining about things. They whine about the corporation, having their liberties taken away, or how the food doesn't suit them or they mumble non-stop about their jobs. Some simply prefer to stand around pumping at the bellows of a constant topic particularly favorable among the dramatists: chaos and dysfunction, all as if this were a society taken over by a de facto governance and not a contractual six month job one (eagerly) volunteered for.

Out of the hundreds of people down here , less than 2 dozen attended the Doctor's slide show on Iraq. I would have thought that more people were interested in hearing the story right from the horse's mouth. This Dr. (who has three children and a wife) even admitted to disliking the former president, was not shy about harboring disgust over all wars, shed tears during a recount of a particular death he witnessed in the OR and has been compassionate enough to send many many Iraqis out of Iraq to the States or to Germany for the care they had to have in order to survive.

I went up afterwards and shook his hand thanking him for the lives he has saved, for the efforts he has made spreading "light and love" as he himself exclaimed- where there has before been so much "darkness and hate".

These are the things that make this place so interesting-you never know who you are going to meet or what new idea will enter your mind. Being quite mercurial myself, I have recently taken to drawing out flow charts to better map my ideas; typically spawn from a book or an inspiring interaction, I leap into other worlds, dreaming. It is fascinating- if not in the least bit- grounding, to bring new awareness to the origins of these thoughts. Looking back over some of the charting, I can see patterns and may even be able to predict what reading a certain book might conjure up in me (currently I am reading a post doc thesis comparing aboriginal law and home-land rule in Greenland, and Nunavut. Naturally now, for instance, I want to become a lawyer for the Inuit of Greenland).

Nobody said that those of us who wander to these far flung fringes of the world are not a little bit different.

Work: fixing small lawn mower type engines that drive centrifugal diesel pumps, or peristaltic water pumps, nozzles that fuel as well as de-fuel military aircraft, gate valves, 6 inch hose fittings, large filter vessels housing four foot long fuel filters and miscellaneous broken other things: driver drill chucks, rotary hand pumps and bikes.

Food: we have been eating tons of fresh fruit and veggies this season: blood oranges and kiwis from New Zealand, cherry tomatoes and raw carrots. Why yesterday morning, during our safety meeting, someone passed around real blueberries and raspberries!

Events: there was a mild mannered game of touch rugby played down in the snow on the sea ice this past Sunday afternoon. I have volunteered to weld up a cribbage tournament trophy. The open water is 15 miles out. The barber is busy.

Leave Taking

The South Pole Traverse, from here on out referred to officially as, SPoT- departed the local area on Friday morning at 1100 hours. The team consists of nine members: Terry Billings- leader, Steve Zellerhoff-equipment operator, Kristy Carnie-equipment operator, Dave weimer-equipment operator, Rob - equipment operator, Wayne Lundeberg-mechanic, Tom- mechanic, Jason-mechanic and Gallen-mountaineer and Ground Penetrating Radar (GPR) operator. As Steve commented later in his email, they left to, "absolutely no fan fare". In fact, most of the community of a little over one thousand people are still not sure whether or not the traverse has left or turned around or is surprised to hear that they had not yet made it back. Suffice to say, although we are living in a technological age of instant messaging, here on the ground- the big chiefs of this remote science station felt it wasn't all that necessary mentioning their departure. Nine people driving tractors to the south pole; what of it? Its been done before. I should mention then that they are pulling sleds equipped with yacht like living quarters, a machine shop, a generator module with a snow melter and almost 90,000 gallons of diesel fuel stored in bladders of 3000 gallons each all the way to the South Pole! Picture this: in front of the whole convoy tracks s a bright red Pisten Bulley (a ski area groomer). It is equipped with a boom extending out in front of it- much like a bow sprit- on which is affixed the ground penetrating radar. As Gallen drives across the ice shelf he is also reading the radar screen imaging looking for anything suggestive of a crevasse. The most heavily cravassed area, respectfully known as the Shear Zone-was crossed safely yesterday. The Shear Zone is worked for weeks in preparation of the traverse by first locating crevasses large enough to swallow tractors, blasting them with dynamite and then back filling them with snow pushed by D8-Caterpillar bulldozers. Crevasses occur here because the unyielding continental bedrock is resisting the hummocking roll of force created by the pressure of the constantly moving ice shelf. From the other side of the Shear Zone the route follows the path of least cravassed territory proven by satellite imagery, the GPR imaging and ground proofing of the six past traverses. The rules of glaciology and the known lay of the terrain being crossed have proven this to be the safest route to follow. Steve reported last night that they made camp in a white place surrounded by white and was surprised to learn that this was surprising to him. He called his revelation, "interesting". It was his turn to heat up diner. Diner is the only meal they eat that has been prepared for them and served hot. These meals were cooked ahead of time by a catering firm in Christchurch and come as large frozen entrees. I imagine family sized lasagnas. Last nights meal was pub cod, mashed potatoes and cauliflower- "white food". For breakfast Steve indulges himself with packets of instant oatmeal which he enjoys with the soy milk he brought along from the store in McMurdo. Lunches are cold cuts, PB&J or tuna on, what I hear- is lovely bread- baked in New Zealand. They do have the ability to use the Internet, though as you can imagine-as it would be at sea, the service is slow and quiet limited. There is one computer for nine people. I went out to see Steve off on Friday and got a tour. I saw his tractor which he has rigged up with various anchors for an isometric rubber band (the kind a Physical therapist would give you) which he plans to use to quell boredom and keep in shape. I saw his bunk which is in the main living module which shares the kitchen, the computer space, and some more bunks on the opposite end. In Steve's quarters, which he has labeled, "us" are four bunks. In the foreword berthing which he labeled, "Them" are more bunks. An additional bunk house unit separate from these quarters also exists and is labeled H2. I don't know what that means.

Meanwhile in McMurdo I have been informed that I will be getting a roommate. Her name is Jill and she is a scientist. She claims to be tidy, smoke free and incapable of snoring. She should be leaving about the time Steve returns...sometime in January. A blizzard came through last night. We have all been anticipating our first holiday in three months: a 2 day weekend in celebration of Turkey day (which I think should be re-named Pumpkin pie day). However the man in charge of calling the shots out on the ice runway- which will soon need to be moved out onto the ice shelf before the annual sea ice break up- has announced for us all to stand by to stand by which means, in his parlance: "y'all might have to work over the Holiday weekend". Though this has us all in a dismal mood we have been promised that we would get our 2 days of freedom the following weekend and, would still be served thanksgiving day meal someday near thanksgiving.

My guess is that in less than three weeks, if these strong southerlies keep up, the salt water will be tossing waves ashore here and we might even get to see some of the world's most coveted wildlife: penguins!

If anyone has questions for Steve, post them in the comments. I will try my darnedest to get them relayed out to him and reply to you through this blog which I now have time for and am happy to be writing again.

The cheese here (flown in from Christchurch)is fantastic and money is going into our bank account. Malcolm reports that Jamie and Marcus are better "house-guests" then Steve and I and has yet to shed a tear in our absence. Maybe we should get a dog.

McMurdo Station

The use of the word skua has been derived from the noun, skua gull, a notorious Antarctic scavenging sea bird. Skua, as a McMurdo Station colloquialism has become a verb; the act of people searching for things other people no longer want, skuaing. There is even a building devoted to skua. It is a goodwill bin sorting room lacking organization, cleanliness or price tags.

In the heated, modular, Korean war era T-5 building known as the, skua barn I look for whatever just for interest. There is an assortment of Westerns, sci fi and romance novels, a feather boa, a snoopy sno cone maker, a nappy yellow bean bag, silk flowers, worn out clothes, a curling iron, dirty coffee mugs, text books and plastic toys. I collected a wooden dradle, a three inch tall plastic tree stump- complete with a wedge notched in it and a bag of balsam needles from the Maine woods.

The act or art of skuaing offers visual and creative stimulation, a short respite from the 60 hour work week.

The view out of our third story window is of the other brown sided building full of brown creaky wardrobes and brown spongy beds. The food is good and someone else does our dishes after every single meal.

Today is Sunday and so we can all relax. I took a hike up Observation hill, this morning, still, in the soft glow of a magma hot sun rise (plus 5 degrees F). We ate fresh baked bagels and fruit and drank our tea, idly chatting with friends.

A glaciologist wears a blue crocheted octopus hat with googly eyes. A man at breakfast dressed as a penguin. One man plays the ukulele in the stairwell at night after work, another friend plays the fiddle. Dawn occurs at 6 am and dusk comes 12 hours later. The colors are tropical and almost give off a false sense of being warm. There are afternoons when the sky is alive with nacreous clouds, swirling cirrus wisps pf electric mother of pearl unique only to these high latitudes.

One of the dish washers was formerly a graphic artist for Victoria's secret.

This place can feel as strange as science fiction with the giant geodesic communication domes perched like static moons on the hills-especially when the temperature drops to almost 100 below zero Fahrenheit with wind chill. But beneath the luminous lens of a storm cloud formed by Mt Erebus, there are cigarette buts tossed in the snow and ford trucks driving around and the droning noise from the power plant. People are busy all the time here either putting radios on penguins and cameras on seals or baking 20 loaves of bread or fixing things with parts wrapped in cosmaline bearing a hand typed part number on yellowed paper or with duct tape that lost its stick sometime shorty after the end of the cold war.