Check my nails/Baby how you feelin’

Spring and fall, tiny daisies cover the botanic garden lawns.

I miss you, brunettes with glasses! (pictured without glasses)

3/22

I was an intense nail-biter as a kid.  At some point in 7th grade I decided that as part of my plan to not be such a weirdo I’d have to cut it out.  I steeped myself and did so, one fingernail at a time.  (I started with the left thumb, then the right thumb, working toward the pinkies.)  I know the process was complete by the end of high school because I granted myself a reprieve for AP exams, during which I bit and chewed through the strenuous hours.  I still often distractedly pick at my nails and cuticles, and it’s a tell that something is up when I trim them obsessively, seeking to perfectly control the contour, or length, or evenness.

It’s especially important to tidy things up before flying.  Any hangnail or jagged morsel of skin will be bloodied and/or obliterated.  All those lines to wait in, people to put up with, and pent up tension from delays and bad smells and invaded personal space makes me desperate to gouge my eyes out; as that has its downsides, I make do with destroying my nails.

Maybe alcohol or sedatives would help, but I’m kind of stubborn—stoic? masochistic?—about maintaining outward calm on my own steam.  Wish me luck, if the planes even fly, on 30+ hours of travel.

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I apologize for that gross digression.  NZ continues to be fabulous and is also clamping down in response to that thing everyone is talking about.  It is just the beginning of autumn, with leaves parting from their branches, the evening sun slanting impossibly golden on the fading flowers, and thick clouds shrouding the mountains and valleys well into the morning.

I would like to report that I ate two oysters, and they were okay.  They started off the “trust the chef” tasting menu at my favorite restaurant in the world.  Not normally my thing, these guys were pretty mild and went well with my Sauvignon Blanc.  The subsequent garlic baked mussels, salmon carpaccio and tartar, brown butter filet of sole, crisp pork belly, and braised short ribs, all with their accompanying garnishes and mosaic of flavor, were fantastic.  (And sticky toffee pudding!)  Stay safe and stay in business, Boatshed Cafe.  

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3/23

Well that was quick.  My chances of being marooned indefinitely just significantly increased.  Not great for the psyche, but a relief for my fingernails.

Valderee Valderah

The concrete tent in Arthur’s Pass.

me and a glacier

Is it glamping if you make satay noodles with fresh veg?

In the last few weeks I’ve fended off giant mountain parrots, twice eaten braised beef cheek, crept through caves, boiled noodles in a field of sheep poop, and washed my hair once.  I’m pleased to report that my natural greasiness can quickly recover even the most frozen-desert-damaged hair.

There was also a day when I got a massage and read a (year-old) New Yorker magazine.  But the really luxurious experiences are gorgeous lonely beaches with rock outcroppings and the rare moments beside water when you’re not being eaten by sand flies.  Tonight my travel buddy and I are living it up like thousand-aires and sleeping in a hut rather than our tents.  Both provide refuge from asshole insects, but the hut features a large picture window that looks out on the lake and mountains beyond, and provides the light by which I write this (sparing my janky headlamp that’s on the fritz due to previously dampened, three-year-old batteries).

I’ve got one week left before I return to virus-hysteria world.  Don’t worry, I’ve got my own supply of toilet paper already.

Sleepy South

Lots of open water already.

By the way, this is the man I’m exclusively dating.  

Look how handsome he is.

Programming note: I’m back to doing this on my phone, so non-sequiturs are the fault of autocorrect.

Dude, I am TIRED.  The last two weeks on station it didn’t matter how much I slept (or how little I worked), I was just tiiiired.  We had some lovely snow and the penguins hung around; I bundled up for the cold first sunset; and then I got shuffled and delayed a few days which allowed for more thorough goodbyes and mental preparation for departure.  The last days of McMurdo summer are a quasi-ghost town: everyone’s doing last-minute chores, presumably inside, and the typical hustle and heavy machinery activity disappear as though it’s a snow day from school.  

Even with all that extra nap time, here I am in beautiful New Zealand, adventure at my fingertips—and I’m sleeping a solid 11 hours.  Ok, I’ve walked over some decent hills and scrunched my toes in some beach sand and am well on my way to a solid tan.  In a few days a buddy and I will tackle some sizable peaks and saddles and river crossings along the non-flooded portion of the Rees-Dart Track.  My tent stakes will take their first plunge into international soil, and I’ll light my own camp stove for the first time.  There are currently three types of cheese in my rucksack (all Kiwi).  I’m rested (I think) and I’m ready.

Molting

I made an effort to finish reading my books, hike to Castle Rock, and give the bathroom a thorough cleaning.  Soon it’ll be time to pack, to winnow things down for travel and leave a box of anticipation and postcards and socks for next year.  Fingers crossed for working in Fuels come October, but, no matter the job, this is where I want to be.

They're tiny, but look on the land in front of the ship...

HOLY SHIT!

Hey guys!  Thanks for choosing to molt here.

We’ve been doing lots of taxi rides.  They let the poor Coastie rats off the boat for two days and they swarmed, over the hill to Scott Base, up trails, and back down to the wharf and the boat.  And the shuffle of summer people departing and winter people arriving has filled our lobby with confused, overdressed people burdened by unreasonable amounts of luggage.  Another end-of-season sight: I will always chuckle at the actual boxes of rocks that come back from the field to be analyzed in labs back home (they’re looking for rare meteorites), boldly stenciled as “ROCK BOXES,” in case you have any second guesses as you lift them.

February is remaining oddly warm, and the penguins (and humans) are loving it.  They lay basking in the sun like so many beach bums -- face-down on rounded bellies, sometimes tucking their faces into their shoulders.  We all seek that ultimate comfort of dozing away the warm afternoons, burrowed into a choice pillow.

My roomie made it back after a looooong two-week weather delay from a deep field camp.  Day after day they canceled flights because of storms on one end or the other, and finally, a day before the seasonal cut-off, they managed to get one mission (instead of four) there and back.  The plane had to be dug out and re-launched with rocket boosters.  And here we’ve been sitting pretty with salad and fruit again, and the bountiful harvest of second-hand clothes and room décor people are shedding as they leave for home.

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.