High Five

I know it's not quite the right issue, but it *is* springtime here.

#readeverywhere

@ParisReview

Welcome to Season 5.  Somehow this time it feels I was only gone a month or so.  The familiar scenery, setting, sunlight, smell, the sourness of the yogurt: this place I know well, and even marking its changes solidifies and reaffirms for me its character.

We have a fun, diversely talented Shuttles crew this season, amongst whom I am the least-experienced professional driver.  But my knowledge of town and its arcane customs and jargon, and at times feudal interrelations, make me a sort of tribal elder.  Whippersnappers a decade younger than me, who have driven big rig semis across country, listen as I ride shotgun and describe where to park at the Tower of Power, how best to approach Sausage Point on a windy day, and the specific door at which to drop off NASA Roy at the Golf Ball.

It was a busy/not busy first week -- meeting new people, endless training sessions, hours of chit-chat while we wait for vehicles to revive from the near-death of wintering outside, and a barrage of activities and freshly effervescing enthusiasm.  I've already trained as a guide for the historic huts and ice pressure ridges, sung with jazz folks, consumed several pounds of cheese, and submitted my three-years-procrastinated literary journal fan mail pic.

Up close delivering some important stuff to the C-17.

Back Again!

Taylor's Mistake, NZ

sundae with frendz

Oct. 20

And we're...offfff...I think.  You really never know for sure.  Five days ago, with perfect weather on both ends, we giddily (and rather sleepily) bundled ourselves onto the C-17 and flew to Antarctica.  It's a loud, tedious plane ride featuring a mediocre sack lunch, but everyone's excited to get to the Ice.  Just 80 miles shy of McMurdo, already into our descent, a crew member came over the PA to tell us that the anti-icing fluid they deployed had caused the windshield to crack(!).  Not in a dire fashion -- blizzard winds were not screaming into the cockpit -- but to a degree that required us to turn around and fly the five hours back to New Zealand.  I'm now part of the boomerang club.

Aside from the long plane ride, I've been grateful to have a few extra days to bum around Christchurch, hike the cliff shores around Sumner, and enjoy perfect eggs benedict and Thai food and negronis.  Time spent in the real world with Ice people is invaluable: quotidien experiences like getting coffee and waiting at the bus stop build surprisingly strong ties.  The quality of time and conversation depth during the past few days will morph in the coming months.

Here I am again, leaning back in my jump-seat, cozy in my Carhartts and enormous insulated boots.  Now, after a sunny day to cure the epoxy on the new window, we're sitting on the runway, carry-on bags full of apples and avocados and booze, minds and hearts again fixed on that far, cold destination.

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Oct. 22

We made it on that second attempt, and I'm happy to report that it is quite cold and appropriately Antarctica-y here.  This year's Shuttles crew seems like a good bunch, and I lucked out and got a great random roommate.  No one could ever fill your shoes, Will -- with midnight coffee, manic crafting, banana stashing, and indescribable character -- but my new roomie is nice and smart and doesn't snore.

Lake Span

Byron? Bryan? I don't remember your name, lake, but you're pretty.

A freighter beyond some old pilings at Whitefish Point.

The Antarctica => Alaska seasonal migration has embedded itself in my inner ear, or magnetic compass, or biological clock—whatever it is that innately compels our peregrinations, be they routine or otherwise.

Alaska was deeply into autumn as Sam and I wrapped up our travels.  Up by Denali even the lower mountains were dusted with snow, and I opted to sleep in the rental car rather than wake up in a frosted tent.  (Actually, it rained pretty hard, and poor Sam was rather damp.)  An evening at the charmingly down-at-heel Chena Hot Springs was pretty nice, though.

And now a couple weeks in Michigan somehow melt by.  I met my brand-spankin'-new-three-day-old niece!  My friend Jen brought me along for a north woods cabin weekend, in a spot incredibly rich in placenames and literary references ("by the shores of gitche gumee" and "rushing Tahquamenaw," on the "Big Two-Hearted River," near Paradise).  We spent a few days exploring Lake Superior beaches, cooking everything with bacon, and gossiping/psychoanalyzing by the wood stove fire. 

Back in TC, I've crossed off almost all the items on my to-do list (exchange lifetime guaranteed socks; try better earplugs; get fancy hiking backpack with hip-belt heat-molded to my waist; procure several pounds of dried cherries to buoy my spirits when the food gets rough at McMurdo).  Long-put-off projects like cleaning up old emails and figuring out how exactly to move music from my aging laptop to my ancient iPod have filled several afternoons.  (This is what I get for hating technology.  If we'd all just stuck with Walkmans I'd be fine.)