Out with the Old

Lightning.  Jill.  Brandi.  Tater Time.  All departed from this place for distant shores, ne’er to return.  These tough old trucks were driven pretty much into the ground, in harsh conditions, by delinquent young navies for decades.  They carried endless shipping containers of food and supplies to us and poop and garbage away from us.  I doubt the current professional bureaucrat-ese will coin monikers as irreverent as Shagnasty for the replacements.

We'll miss you, cool old trucks.

photo: Brian Egger

This year we have a causeway instead of an ice pier.

(Not my photo, wish I knew who to credit.)

And I’m trying to spend as much time in my beloved Coffee House as possible before its scheduled demolition this winter.  This warm dark cave of alternating conviviality and quiet, with its Hobbit-hole arched ceiling, satisfyingly solid oak bar, distinctively creaky door, and cozy comfort is irreplaceable.  The old wood skis and burlap coffee sacks will no doubt reappear in a new space, and we’ll have to imbue it with as much good conversation and music and toasting and commiserating as we can to bring life to it.

Something else we are in the process of shedding is complacency about sexual harassment and assault.  Well-worn patterns of behavior and toothless responses and tepid policy enforcement aren’t cutting it for this robust community.  Women (and men) here—as everywhere—endure far too much shitty action and infringement on our right to live and work in reasonable safety.  Many of us are sick of experiencing acts of aggression and violence and are incensed by the ineptitude and inaction of management to even comply with program rules and the law.  It’s wonderful to get away from the dehumanizing effect of technology and “modern life” by being here, and we will not suffer dehumanizing by our colleagues. 

We’re working on improvements in identifying, documenting, and reducing harassment and assault.  Friends, if you have any knowledge, insight, or suggestions, please share them with me so I can discuss them with station management.  Luckily, my fuck-off vibe has thus far protected me personally, but it’s just that—luck.  My friends have been assaulted and I want to do as much as I can to promote our safety here.  Please do forward anything you think could be helpful.

Thar She Blows

So. Many. Penguins.  Holy crap, guys, there are pods of twenty swimming around, another group walking right up to us on land, and Emperors standing right next to buildings to mold out at the airfield.  And whales—reportedly dozens of orcas out in the open channel the ice breaker is clearing, and several minkes I’ve seen with my own eyes right off the point.  The weekend weather has obliged us with sunny, almost windless days to stand outside and enjoy the spectacle.

This guy tilted his head back all the way while sheltered from the wind.

Good morning, sleepy Jackson.

It was so warm today I skied in a t-shirt and took off my gloves.  A few inches of densely icy powder coated the ice shelf, rainbow bits of glitter for miles and miles, culminating with the familiar white slopes of our neighborhood volcano.  I hustled a bit to get to an important rendezvous: a lunch date at the best cafeteria around.  After some cheesy polenta and green beans and cranberry sourdough and sausage and peppers, I got a brief tutorial/joy ride in a high-tech tractor. Grooming a berm (to keep structures from getting buried in winter drifts) is the most direct science support I’ve performed all season.

Oh wait, I guess I might have helped when I got to fly in a helicopter out to a field camp to take out some supplies.  Eeeeek!  Yes, I was gifted a morale trip (or as the official email put it, a “moral” trip) about 200 miles away to an ice core drilling camp.  Riding in a helo is awesome, the scenery was awesome, and I got some 120,000 year-old ice to put in my white Russians.  We swooped low over crevasse fields radiating electric-blue light, past mountainous rocky “coasts” where the ridge line comes down to the ice shelf, and eventually reached the collection of toy-like yellow tents huddled together next to a 40-ft drill draped in a circus tent.  It only took about two hours, but it felt, in a good way, much longer.

And I actually have now camped in Antarctica.  I was super tired from hiking and digging ice blocks and other activities, and the zero-degree bag was soooo warm and comfy that I slept wonderfully.  We had cocoa and biscuits, and I got a bit cold in the wind, so maybe I have a slight understanding of the early explorers.  But they definitely did not have leftover fried chicken or a van to drive back to a soft bed and brunch the next morning.

Them Apples

I do really intend to dial back my frenzied social calendar.  There was one day last week I just came home after dinner, stayed in, and meditatively trimmed my nails and stared at the wall.  (Item: there's cool art/stuff on my wall.)  But then there were friends that wanted to sing, and an evening of pretend winter camping, and before you know it you're scheduling a hiking date down to the minute.  Hey, check out our rustic attempted igloo/fortress:

We spent an hour or two digging snow blocks, relaxed with some

melted snow hot chocolate, and essentially exhausted ourselves with

fresh air sort of practicing survival skills.  (Damnit, I meant to move that La Croix can.)

Chef Brian in our kitchen dugout.

It's a new year, a new month, bringing giant boats loaded with materials for the station rebuild that will soon up-end the flow of life in town.  That's the idea, at least.  I glimpsed the ice breaker about twelve miles out a few days ago -- it curiously disappeared, but this morning is parked in the ice right in front of town.  One resupply vessel is on its way but the other is broken down in Hawaii.  And we'll have a fuel tanker squeezed in there somewhere.  Hopefully some fresh fruit and shell eggs will make their way here via some mode of transportation.

We're getting to the point where even dried out citrus is worth its weight in gold.  Weeks of forced abstinence from fresh food mean we're resorting to Starburst candy and Gatorade for a semblance of the real thing.  But for one precious meal, I was able to deliver.  I squirreled away good cheese, a hallowed head of lettuce, two tomatoes, a bell pepper, and an orange -- and most importantly, a friend brought a bag of eight giant lemons back from New Zealand just before Christmas.  By sleight of hand and cajoling my cook friends to turn their backs while I was near the butter, I was able to make dinner for the Shuttles crew to celebrate mid-season.  Salad and chocolate and smoked salmon dip and mulled wine and quiche (with real cream!) and brown butter shortbread bars with lemon curd.  And from our gift exchange I scored a hand-crafted little bird and an apple.  A lot of people miss their dogs and look forward to petting random puppies when we return to civilization; you'll find me caressing spring greens and cucumbers and kiwis in the supermarket.

Well Fueled

"What if you put a thin line of lipstick over my eyebrows?"  This is not something I've ever suggested before, but it was fantastic.  Between the two of them, Carissa and Scout devised a vaguely Egyptian look to complement the gold sequin skirt and rainbow leggings I wore for Ice Stock.  There was a frigid wind, and I was lucky not to need dexterous fingers and could dance as hard as possible to perform.

Toby, you are a funk goddess.  Liz, you make the best faces.

This weekend was a two-for, as the annual art show was scheduled a bit earlier than usual in the season.  I spent my Monday volunteering with the Fuels department to get more familiar with their work.  Various pipelines snake around town, disappearing under roads and buildings, and congregate in Rube Goldberg-esque neetworks of crazy.  With my helpful instructor, I crawled around ditches and behind buildings to check that appropriate valves were open or closed, then we let fuel flow by way of gravity downhill to the tank we wanted to replenish.  It was a pretty nice day but I was tuckered out after lunch.  I managed to help a bit with cleaning the barn up for the art show that night, but I did have to evaporate away and sneak in a nap.

MAAG (McMurdo Alternative Art Gallery) is always a delight.  My dear kitchen friend re-purposed some of the 1000(?) pounds of erroneously ordered mint chips that have haunted station inventory for years into a replica of Machu Picchu and one of our most beloved childhood memories:

Everyone's anxiety on the Oregon Trail.

My roomie helped make a semi-mechanical bull-penguin that you could ride.  And there was a forest.  Well, about as good a real forest as we can get down here -- fake hanging plants and vines, a projected video of rain forest footage, and mist falling and dripping from the leaves.  Four of us sat in awe in the dim light of the canopy and just breathed quietly.

And after all that excitement, I found a nice new place today.  Not really found, and not really new, but I walked out to, technically, a glacier terminus just beyond station.  A creaking, slow-motion waterfall of packed ice flows to the edge of what will be the open sea later this year.  The sun has melted impressively long icicles that drip-drip-drip like a light rain, and occasional chunks calve off the face with a satisfying guunsshh into the snow below.

I'd estimate it's 30-40 feet high.

Uncontrolled Arrivals

I can take no credit for this awesome band name.  My friend Toby chose it for her funk band (in which I sing backup vocals).  It's a term from the airfield: since there's no air traffic controller and so few planes, someone loosely announces when planes take off and land.  ("Uncontrolled arrival announcement" sounds pretty scary the first time you hear it on the radio.)  We are attempting to be as raucous as a group of 30s-ish white folks can be while covering "Super Freak" and "Brick House," with the help of sequins and a dose of carefree abandon.

Playing carols over the HF radio to deep field camps.

I wish I knew who took this amazing photo of the Waste Barn show.

Things have been increasingly uncontrolled lately.  We partied good at the helicopter hanger a couple weeks ago, me with a slew of glittered and taught-dressed ladies scoping out the "second round" -- guys either overlooked or newly available after the early-season pairings-off have faded.  It was fun dancing, and (perhaps luckily) I limited myself to water that night attempting not to worsen a cold or act too rashly.  And just days later, two of the best events of the season: the acoustic pre-Christmas show at a transformed and decorated Waste Barn, and solstice silent dance.  You get lost in the whimsical ambiance of Wasteozoic Park, forgetting for the evening the relentless, harsh landscape in a cozy den of blanketed couches and sock-puppet dinosaurs.  And dancing overlooking town with the wind filling your jacket-arms like a sail, your sweat washes away some accumulated murk. 

My first penguin of the season, tobogganing away.

Christmas was cheese and bread and apples and almonds and coffee followed by beef filet and lobster tail and crab legs and chocolate truffles and chocolate cake and lemon cheesecake and a touch of pastis and then scotch.  And good people.  There are many kind and generous people here.  Aside from the penguins and unlimited free lunch meat, the best part of life here is the feeling of dumb luck upon meeting and getting to know and appreciating and building friendships with wonderful people.  Thanks to you, near and far, who help with and enjoy alongside.

The flowers in the garden know/just how they need to grow

Carissa leads the charge, and I'm camouflaged in green.

Patrick elicits a renaissance-y sound from the guitar as we

practice the traditional early music piece "The Middle."

Dreams really do come true: I was able to get through performing Lizzo’s “Juice” without just laughing at myself, and we had a super fun semi-secret party at an empty dorm.  The dancing got a little intense and we lost some of the beads from the shaker, but everyone got home in one piece.  It was a school night so that meant just hot chocolate for me( “eight hours bottle to throttle”), and it was about the most fun sober dancing I’ve ever had.

A massive snowstorm started a few days ago, trapping people here with short contracts from leaving, and providing ideal conditions for a post-brunch snowball fight.  Usually it’s so dry and cold you can’t pack the snow, but it’s a balmy 25F and we’ve got eight or so inches of beautiful cannon fodder.  There were no teams; occasional white-washings were perpetrated; random charges were rallied; and a BBC crew filmed and participated.

I have thus far evaded the second round of illness, which has morphed into a swift-striking and long-lasting strep-laryngitis.  Fingers crossed that my mix of voodoo and fresh ginger will keep me healthy and able to continue with xmas concert band, choir, and vocal harmonies with a banjo player friend.

We're All Friends, We're All Friends

Things friends do:

- drink coffee with you
- pet your hair
- physically block your view of people you don't like
- write you entertaining letters
- share the good cookies
- indulge each other's enthusiasm for 80085 texts
- knit together
- awkwardly dance in sympathy when the music is bad
- reveal the secrets behind card tricks
- find out if that guy is single
- lend their dresses
- watch Beautician and the Beast
- work out barbershop quartet harmonies for that Jimmy Eat World song
- take cool seal photos (see photo)
- trade books
- wait

photo credit: Brian Gershon