December 25, 2012: Happy Holidays From Antarctica!

It's time for another video blog!

More videos will be added next week on New Years Eve.

Happy Holidays to my friends and family! Hope this season finds you all happy and healthy.

December 18, 2012: Words Beyond Speech

Hiking in the Taylor Valley

When the Muse comes She doesn't tell you to write; She says get up for a minute, I've something to show you, stand here. --Michael Goldman

Alone is good. It makes me feel self dependent and strong. Solitude allows me to listen, and in the stillness I realize that there are words to be heard.

It is a wonderful thing to escape from the hustle and bustle of station life and to explore a still, quiet mountain valley. A few weeks ago I found myself in paradise--alone in the Taylor Valley, walking along a frozen Lake Hoare. A welcome therapeutic escape from a [sometimes] stifling McMurdo.

The first ten minutes after leaving my crew behind I was stiff and quiet--still feeling the burden of social confinement. But once I realized that I was alone, really alone, my shoulders dropped with relief, and my pace picked up with an extra skip in my step--like a young filly released from her stall.  Then the songs started.

I rarely sing when I'm alone (for a number of reasons), mostly because "alone" isn't always alone. I've been caught, on more than one occasion, by passing hikers, swinging a stick and singing at the top of my lungs. I am always left red-faced and silent as the grave as they suppress their laughter and politely pass by. These days I remain pensive and quiet on the trail. My only exception is if I lose my bear spray in the Bob Marshall. In this case I will sing Elton John's Tiny Dancer at the top of my lungs.

My constraints broke down and I began to sing loud and boisterously. I sang until my throat was dry and I became bored with my own voice. Soon my song faded away and all that I heard was the clicking and clanking of my backpack and the crunching ice beneath my feet. Like I said, solitude is good. To leave people behind, even those close to me, and become "one" again--to regain my individuality--this is important to me. I cleared my mind as I walked--shutting out and turning off all external and internal noise. And that's how it starts.

Finding silence, true silence, is difficult. I've experienced it only on a few occasions, and when I do, I have existential experiences. I have usually been alone when this happens--it is more conducive--and I have always been in the natural world. Words or thoughts pop into my head suddenly and so randomly that sometimes I feel like they are a gift from the universe. It's like unseen forces know that my mind is quiet, my heart is open, and that I am ready and willing to receive its secrets or words of wisdom. Some times I feel like I am being rewarded for putting myself in a place, physically and mentally, to receive these insights.

I once had an experience (as I like to call it) in the Grand Canyon. I discovered (or was enlightened to) my own insignificance. There, in The Big Ditch, I understood my place in this world. I learned that life goes on with out me and that my previous world view (in being the center of the universe) was the belief of my inner child. The harsh beauty and shear scale of the canyon showed me just how small and insignificant I was--and I was okay with it. In all honesty, I was relieved. All of a sudden I felt connected, no longer detached. I found my place and with it came acceptance, confidence, and a burning desire to make the most of my short time.

This inner voice started when I was alone and in a predicament. I had climbed too high on the red rocks and I had a treacherous, steep, decent ahead of me. I sat for a long time thinking. I thought about how foolish I was to have put myself in that situation. I thought about how if I slipped, there was a good chance that I would not have been found--I had strayed far from the direction I had told my companions I was heading. I thought about how unfriendly this place was--how every misstep could result in injury or death or, at the very least, cactus in my hands. I thought about my water supply, about my family and my dog back home, and whether or not I had paid my student loan bill before I left. And after I thought and thought, I suddenly stopped thinking and sat quietly. And that is when my lesson began.

But that wasn't the only time I had an experience. I once heard, I swear I heard, nature's voice  while I sat in my little red kayak in an eddy while my tourists swam and splashed and disturbed what little peace there was left to disturb. As my ears and mind became acclimated to the noise, and I drew my thoughts away from the chaotic scene, something within me grew quiet. My mind became still, along with my body, and my focus fell on the water that held me in its calm embrace. I watched the currents converge. Watched as they swirled and twirled in a turbulent yet graceful dance. I saw minos float like dark clouds--turning from puffy cumulous to thin cirrus at the slightest disturbance. The sun penetrated the water and reached its friendly rays towards the dark green depths. The light flickered on the surface like diamonds--so brilliant!

I first heard it while taking in all these sites. It was a whisper, a mumble, at first, but grew in volume and audibility. As crazy as it sounds, the river was speaking to me. But it wasn't just the river. It was the natural world, the universe, it was life's voice that I heard. I listened hard but I couldn't make out her words. If only I was alone! If only these people would disappear and I was free to sit for hours and give my full attention, my full commitment, I know I would have understood, maybe even had a dialogue. But as it were, I sat and strained my ears for the words that never came. I may not have heard the words, but I felt their meaning and an inner peace set in. At that moment I knew I was on the right path, that I was living a life that was harmonious and in concordance to the universe.

Once again I felt my insignificance, I understood my role as a short burning clump of matter, a convergence of atoms. To know you are not the center of the universe, but part of it, is such a beautiful feeling! Why anyone would want a universe centered around humans and religious orthodox is beyond me. This life, as it is, is perfect to me. It's a gift of free will--to be who you want, to do what you want, to go where you want, to love who you want and not be pre made or pre destined towards anything in particular.

One of the last times I heard this voice was while I was skiing in the backcountry on a snowy day. I had stopped to rest on my ascent--tired from trying to keep up with Ryan who is unnaturally fast up the mountain. Whether he is hiking, skinning up a trail or plowing a new one, he leaves me, and anyone who dares to try and keep up, in the dust. This unnatural speed makes me, at times, wonder if he is indeed my relation and not part machine. But, I suppose we do have the same squinty eyes when we smile. So.

I sat in the snow--quietly watching plump snow flakes float down like feathers from swollen pillow-clouds. Every now and again Manny (who is the only one who can keep up with Robot Ryan) broke from his side to check on me. At this moment both Ryan and Manny were some where "up" and I was alone. Stillness set in and quietly fell around me in a thick blanket. Every once in a while I could hear a faint "jingle" from Manny's collar and then, once again, quiet. At this moment I felt rather than heard it. Magic!

As a child, my imagination was sacred. Belief in the unseen was part of my every day life. Books, and make believe, and Santa Claus--any thing and every thing was possible. My friend Abby's favorite stories is about the day I found out the truth about Santa Claus. Since we are close to Christmas I will share it with you. But be warned, it is a sad, sad story. 

I was young--around eight years old--and pretending to be a journalist. I decided that since I had heard rumors, I would investigate the validity of certain holiday persons and also special occasion persons (aka tooth fairy).  

I chose my unsuspecting Mother as my first source. "Mrs. Witkowski" I began, "is it, or is it not, true that the tooth fairy is real?" I sat poised and confident, holding my "My Little Ponies" notepad and pink-sparkled pencil. 

"Honey, are you sure you want to know?" Was my poor, trapped mother's reply.

"Yes."

She tried to soften the blow with her words, but the terrible "No" was all I heard. My head and heart dropped, but I was determined to remain strong. I asked my next question.

"Mrs. Witkowski, is the Easter Bunny real?" My voice waivered.

In a soft, sympathetic voice, "No, honey."

At this point my eyes began to tear up and I gripped my pink-sparkled pencil tightly.

Forgetting formality, "Santa?" I squeaked.

A slow, mournful head-shake was my Mother's answer.

I tossed my pink-sparkled pencil and "My Little Ponies" notepad aside and threw myself on the floor and cried and cried. My heart, as silly as it sounds, was broken. The magic was gone. An entire world that I loved had disapeared. Vanished. Growing up and leaving behind the world of make-believe was sobering. I wanted magic, mystery, and the prospect of anything being possible. All I found with age was impossibility, improbability, doubt, and painful truths--a dry non fiction life.

Sitting in silence, watching individually unique and detailed frozen water molecules settle on the out-stretched arms of Lodge Pole Pines and straining my ears to hear them land, I rediscovered this forgotten world. The voice was again present--mentoring my open mind. I began to think of atoms and protons. My thoughts turned to multiple dimensions and parallel universes. I thought about these other worlds that run on their own set of rules--rules that look nothing like our own--breaking the confines of gravity and the laws of the universe as we know it. This is real magic. Magic that surrounds us unseen. Magic that makes and maintains us. Gravity, electromagnetism, relativity,  quantum mechanics, string theory. How intriguing! Real-life magic that competes with fairy tales. On this day, I began to look at the world through childlike eyes again. 

It seems that every time that I break away from people, and allow myself to listen, the Universe speaks and teaches me a new lesson. Alone on a frozen lake of crystals, surrounded by ancient glaciers and jagged granite peaks, immersed in breath-taking beauty, I am a child again--full of spirit, and eager to learn. I still giggle, wide-eyed and amazed at this big, beautiful planet. There are moments that jump-start my heart. Moments that dazzle me. They are fleeting, but they are real. They are tangible. I live for these moments. 

Magical Antarctica:

Words beyond speech

A voice articulated by silence

Silence and absentmindedness 

Lost in the beauty of nothingness

And the grace of being one with yourself

-JLW

December 9, 2012: My Picture Album

Hi Friends & Family,

Sorry I have not been consistent with my writing. As of late I have been distracted by various work projects, trips to Taylor Valley, and Dave's return to McMurdo. Yes, he finally made it back--with a little more hair on his face and a deep appreciation for showers. He enjoyed his time in the deep field, but he is more than ready to get his chance to fly in a helicopter to the Dry Valleys--his first trip is on Tuesday.

My time has also been taken up by music--I have been recruited to dust off the ole fiddle and try to squeak and scratch my way through a set of bluegrass/classic rock songs. I am having fun with my band members and I am happy hearing the rust slowly flake off my strings. Our first performance will be the beginning of January at "Ice Stock".

The weather is warm--amazingly warm. The high has been coasting around 30 degrees Fahrenheit. I know that probably sounds chilly for you folks at home but, after spending weeks in negative degree weather, it is like a day at the beach. We wear t-shirts and sandals and sit on the back deck of our carp shop and drink beer in the sun. The open sea will be here soon. The ice is melting and the blue, blue water slowly crawls towards us. I can't wait for the prospect of seeing whales and marine life.

Today Dave and I hiked up and around Observation Hill--a 754 foot hill that displays a great view of the mountains and the frozen sea. It was a wonderful day with a few animal sightings--including a couple of lazy Wendell Seals and a Skua who was bathing in a pond of melted snow. 

I will be posting another blog or two later this week, but for now I will keep this post short (due to a long day of shenanigans) and will leave you with a few pictures. They are compiled from the last few weeks and a few are captured moments that I will later write about and share with you.

Again, thank you for reading and following my adventures. And happy birthday to my beautiful Mother!

Jenna

A lovely October evening--Hut Point, McMurdo

Lake Hoare Camp

The moon hangs over the Taylor Valley and Common Wealth Glacier

A mummified Wendell Seal (dated as being over 5,000 years old)

My tent at Lake Hoare

The ghostly image of a helicopter shows through the snow cloud

A helicopter takes a "Christmas Package" back to McMurdo

November 20, 2012: Hiking With Jenna (Lake Hoare)

Here's a little change in my routine... I thought I would try a video blog. I have another [written] blog on the way describing my time at Lake Hoare; but, for now, I thought it would be a welcome change to have you see with your eyes instead of with your mind. Please excuse the rambling words and broken voice--you all know by now that I'm better at expressing myself with a pen. With out further ado, may I present: Hiking With Jenna (Lake Hoare).

                                     *This is a 5,000 year old adult Weddell seal.

November 11, 2012: Sea Ice Patrol

A shot of McMurdo from the sea ice

Every week two carpenters are chosen to go on Sea Ice Patrol. This job consists of driving a tucker onto the sea ice and checking/refueling all the dive huts. These huts sites are meticulously placed, miles apart, off the frozen coast. It is a coveted job, with lots of possibilities of seeing wildlife. With only a few weeks left before the closing of the sea ice season (due to unsafe, melting ice), I was finally chosen. 

Our first job was to help drill a hole for a new dive spot. The huts are placed over the large holes and are heated with propane in order to keep a toasty environment for the divers emerging from the frigid depths. They bring with them samples and tiny sea creatures for studying, along with jaw-dropping photos of the underworld. How I wish I could one day dive under that frozen, blue ceiling.

The drilling process

The hole from inside the hut

Our next task was to refuel the huts. The exciting part about this job is that the huts are far from the active, noisy station and it brings in Weddell Seals--who like to use the diving holes to recharge and breath. Stepping into the first hut, I startled a seal who was resting. It slipped quickly into the water and disappeared--leaving only a fishy smell behind. I could hear a foreign language being spoken from the underworld. A series of clicking and high to low pitches echoed from below. I waited and listened quietly, hoping that the seal, who was probably giving a vocal description of me to its friends, would return. From information I've acquired about Weddells and their curiosity, I was sure it would be back--I was right. As I peered into the torquise water, I saw two eyes glued on me. She slowly rose up from the depths until she surfaced and lay breathing on the ice shelf. The sound of a seal breathing is methodic. It is like listening to a respirator rise and fall. They should use this sound for sleep simulators on clocks.

I felt the nagging urge to get closer but, respectfully, I kept my distance. I am constantly fighting this desire with almost all of the animals I encounter--I want to interact with them so badly! Staring at each other from a distance never seems like enough. Despite this feeling, I respected her need to rest.

The life of an arctic seal is an amazing story. They are biologically designed, in so many ways, to endure and thrive in this harsh environment. In search of food, Weddell Seals can dive over 1,000 feet deep. This is possible because they have five times more oxygen in their blood than humans. They also slow their heart rate and limit blood circulation to their heart and other vital organs. Weddells live on ice--preferring this habitat over their cousins', who choose to reside on the rocky coastline. They are transients--constantly moving, constantly searching for, and maintaining, ice holes in order to survive. Her inherent desire to search for air holes and my inherent desire to see new worlds--this is how the Weddell and I met. 

I could have listened to her breath and stared into her big, glassy eyes for hours, but my duty and coworker called and I had to break the trance. I should have become a marine biologist so I could justify my need to observe.

A Weddel sticks its nostrils through a small hole in the ice in order to recharge

On our drive back to the station I spotted three Skuas--arctic seabirds whose eventual arrival to McMurdo brings attacks on food-bearing civilians. To me, they are a welcome sight. Another sign of life's resilience in Antarctica. 

In Other News

After two weeks of cancelled flights and frustration, Dave finally made it to WAIS. He called from a satellite phone this morning and reported that all is well in West Antarctica. Their small town of tents has been set up and they are ready to get to work. WAIS Divide is a camp which is erected every summer season in order to support the NSF's ice core project--the drilling, abstracting, and analysis of core samples in order to read historic records left behind by nature. Its topography is similar to South Pole--flat and equally as cold. Dave should be there for a duration of two weeks--camping in the elements and setting up rac-tents--before he is flown back to McMurdo. That is, unless the weather delays his return. A very real possibility.

Shout Outs

Happy birthday, Britt! Twenty-seven is going to be a great year.

Happy late (sorry) anniversary, Mom and Dad! Love you both.

Thank you, Veterans, for your sacrifice in order to keep our country safe.

One year, David! I'm stoked to share more adventures with you.

November 11, 2012: A Beautiful Life

[There is a] kind of all-embracing universality evident in Mother Teresa's prayer: "May God break my heart so completely that the whole world falls in." Not just fellow nuns, Catholics, Calcuttans, Indians. The whole world. It gives me pause to realize that, were such a prayer said by me and answered by God, I would afterward possess a heart so open that even hate-driven zealots would fall inside... [My] sense of the worlds as a gift, my sense of a grace operative in this world despite its terrors, propels me to allow the world to open my heart still wider, even if the openness comes by breaking--for I have seen the whole world fall into a few hearts, and nothing has ever struck me as more beautiful. --David James Duncan

There once was a little girl who grew up with birds. She had a beautiful soul, this girl, and everyone loved her--everyone. She was a songbird--always singing--and when her face lit up with laughter the sun competed with her solar smile. Everything was beautiful to this little girl because her time was short and she knew it. 

One day the little girl decided that she would move the world with a song. She breathed deep and filled her lungs, and when she sang out her voice was loud and clear and beautiful. Everyone who heard her song stopped to listen and they were touched--they were touched deeply and unforgettably. The girl's song was short and her voice began to waver and to grow faint--soon it was silent. After she moved the world, the little girl, who grew up with birds, flew far, far away and everyone who knew her were forever changed because of her song. 

Sam and her dog Dylan

Samantha Jane Laux lived her short life to the fullest, inspiring everyone who intersected her path--inspiring me. Sam was kind, and patient, yet tenacious, and full of fire. Her drive to make the most of what she had led her to travel, to become a published author, and to transpose beauty and grace into an ugly, life-stealing disease. NF2 took Sam's life, but she did not let the disease define it. She had just turned twenty-three when she flew away, but she lived more in those short years than most people do in a life time. Sam was beautiful.

I find myself thinking of her often--its hard not to. When someone impacts your life, so fully and incandescently, their essence stays with you. Whenever I find beauty I think of Sam. Whether it is a setting or rising sun, a singing bird, or a tiny flower--anything that is lovely and exhibits life reminds me of her.

Although I was the older sister-figure, I looked up to Sam. She was wise, beyond her age, and steady. She taught me how to live. She solidified my core belief to never accept the status quo--to grasp onto my life and follow my inner, heart-felt desires. She taught me how to open wide my whole heart--even at the risk of breaking it. Most importantly, she taught me not to let anything--whether it is health, nay-sayers, or fear--stand in my way. 

Living in Antarctica, standing in the shadow of ancient mountains, walking on frozen records of time, and wearing my heart on my sleeve, I feel overwhelmingly free. I am an existentialist--a transcended version of my former self. I stand for nothing and everything,

I want it all. As much as I can carry in this life, and when my arms are full, I will drag whatever I can. Call it selfish or self-centered--call it what you like--but this is my life, my one opportunity to live spectacularly. A life that I won't gaze back on with regret. No. When my time expires, I will look my fate in the face and reach for its hand--no need to look back or to be afraid. I will say, "I am ready. I have done all that I set foot to do. I saw. I felt. I lived."

Salmon help shield us from fear of death by showing us how to follow our course with out fear, and how to give ourselves for the sake of things greater than ourselves... A piece of my interior will never leave that sand fingertip amid the salmon-shattered flow. And this piece of me, I swear, is not afraid to die. --David James Duncan

For Sammi (1989-2012)

November 3, 2012: Life At The Bottom Of The World

McMurdo Station

It's November. Where did October go?  life down here, as simple and secluded as it is, can be a little hectic. Time seems to break the rules and ticks away at its own pace. Days are beginning to feel like minutes, weeks, like days. It’s strange, and hard to believe, that I’ve spent over a month at McMurdo Station. Time has a way of slipping stealthily past, leaving me dazed and confused and wondering where it went. I know that one of these mornings I will wake up, ready for work, and will be loaded onto a C17 and flown back to where they found me--still gripping my tool bag and trying to do the math in my head. So before that happens let me tell you a little more about life at 77.8500 degrees south.

Stoked to be here!

THE JOB

When I received the phone call informing me that I had been hired as a carpenter at McMurdo, I had a brief moment of panic. I had played with tools in the past--the majority of my experience coming from a ten day trip to Warez, Mexico (in 2004) where I helped build a little house for a large family. I've also learned a few tricks from my handy older brother--but that's about it. I could swing a hammer and not shy away from a chop saw, but I had no idea what I was getting myself into. 

After signing and faxing my offer of employment letter, I promptly ordered a book on Amazon--Basic Carpentry Skills--which I then promptly lost. Weeks before my deployment to Antarctica, I was feeling like the kid who didn't study for the test. During my family visit to Ohio I talked my Dad into giving me a "tool tutorial." This is a socket wrench. This is a cross-cut saw. This is a dead-blow hammer. Thanks Dad, but I still felt uneasy. 

The first week of work I felt like an imposter. I was trying hard not to expose myself for who I really was--a social working-substitue teaching-raft guide who had no idea how to use a router. So you can imagine my terror when I was put on a solo project that involved using some tools and materials that I had never seen. The task was to build skids/skis for a giant box. I was given one sheet of UHMW (ultra high molecular weight) and was told that it's worth more than my salary and it's the only one in stock--basically, don't mess up. I wasn't told that the material shrinks when exposed to cold and to make my cuts accordingly. Over the next few days I developed a mantra that I would repeat over and over in my head: I am a carpenter. I am a carpenter. I AM a carpenter. 

I might have been a little stressed during the construction of this project. I may or may not have said a few snippy words to Dave and shed a couple of hot tears in private--I don't remember. All I know is that the finished product made me jubilant. I felt like a proud parent/artist--the box on skis, my "beautiful" child--my work of art. I learned much during the construction, not only about tools (I am now a pro with hand-held routers), but also about the people I work with. Like myself, they are all in a transitional phase--always learning, always expanding their skills--and they understand the learning curve is steep. I have been taken under their wings and no longer feel the need to pretend. I am a carpenter--one that asks a lot of questions. Since my first project I have successfully built another set of skis, a couple of polar havens, two large boxes, a shelf, four signs (manipulating all-thread to create my own bolts to hang them by), thirty blue-seats (insulated toilet seats), and completed multiple work orders around station. Every time I complete a project successfully, or use a large power tool, I feel exhilarated. My new mantra: I am woman!

The Carp Shop

Dave demonstrating his carp skills with a homemade beer koozie 

THE PEOPLE

McMurdians are a unique group of people--a different breed. Talented individuals, from various backgrounds, who congregate here for numerous reasons. Some come for science; others are here because of a significant other; a few are attempting to escape from society; But, I believe the majority travel here, including Dave and myself, for the adventure. Of course there are a few individuals who come soley for the money. They are the ones who wear visors over their eyes. They don't see the mountains, the dancing snow flakes, or the shimmer of the sun on the ice. They see black and gray.

There is a collective feeling of acceptance here. We are nerds, outcasts, travelers, and dreamers that found our way to a place far from the beaten path--the farthest away from  society one can get. There is a ballroom dancer, a juggler-runner, an opera singer, and a tough, weather-worn mountain guide who loves to sew and make quilts. Everyone here marches to their own beat.

RECREATION 

Some of these talented people offer their skills to the public through classes. A calendar of events is posted weekly--anything from jewelry making and crafts, to fitness classes and sign language. Organized games of soccer, basketball, volley ball, and ping pong are played daily. There is always something going on and never much down-time. 

One of our favorite places to hang out on station is the coffeehouse/wine bar--a small building that is warm and cozy and offers a cabin-like atmosphere. The lights are dim and, at certain times, a barista is on hand to make lattes and cappuccinos out of powdered milk. It is a great place to play cards and to socialize.

There are a couple of trails for running, hiking, and cross country skiing--although many become off limits when the temperatures rise. Melting ice and crevasses make it dangerous to go anywhere other than the marked trail systems. 

So far there has not been much wildlife. A few scattered seals and a random skua are the only animals that have made themselves known--although I've been told we will soon be invaded by flocks of skuas helping themselves to our trash and tormenting people who walk outside with food. One veteran had this to say, "It's like the damn things know they are protected and we can't do anything to stop them." 

IN OTHER NEWS

The weather at McMurdo is getting warmer. The temperature has been coasting around fifteen degrees with out the windchill. It feels pleasant--especially at mid day when the sun is at its highest point. On several occasions I've worked outside with out my jacket, wearing only a sweatshirt. We haven't had snow for a couple of weeks and volcanic rock is appearing all over station. It makes for better traction and results in less falls--I've had three (graceful, mind you) since arriving at McMurdo.

Dave has not yet left for West Antarctica. The two C-130 Hercules--the planes designated to take them to WAIS--keep breaking down. The mechanical issues have been keeping Dave, and the deep field team, grounded for over a week. At one point he was on the plane, engines roaring, when they declared that the weather was not fair enough to fly.  He is scheduled to depart tomorrow evening. We'll see if it actually happens. He is skeptical.



 SOME ADDITIONAL PHOTOS

Ivan the terra bus

Mt Erebus

Lake ice at Lake Fryxell

 

Dave looking stoic

Me, Dave, and Mt Erebus

October 25, 2012: Antarctica Defined

A professor of literature once told me that it tried his nerves to witness the abuse and misuse of the english language. He used the word awesome as an example--a word used, by most of us, daily and nonchalantly. The definition (according to Merriam-Webster) is as follows: inspiring feelings of awe, admiration, or wonder. 

Since hearing the professor's rant on the subject, I often catch myself in the dirty act of decimating words. Is this sandwich awesome? I now ask myself. Was my day incredible? Was it really? By definition? I am not a fundamentalist like my professor friend. Orally, I fall into the same category as the majority of my generation. We are word hippies--counter linguists. We have started a movement to change the form, meaning, and context of the English language. Who cares about proper semantics or pragmatics? Those kinds of things are old-school--reserved for our parents. We reject proper grammar and are lazy to the core. We toss exclamation marks around like pennies--a form of punctuation reserved for the most shocking, thrilling, loud, bold, and poignant of sentences.

This is the evolution of language, I suppose; But I still think of the professor, and I think of him now, when I am in a situation that calls for the use of these powerful words in the context that they were meant to be received. I feel confident in my choice of words and punctuation when I describe Antarctica. This place, this continent, is awesome!

LAKE FRYXELL

Lake Fryxell--Antarctica Specially Protected Area (ASPA)

I was suppose to fly Tuesday, but our trip was pushed back two days due to inclement weather. Each day of being grounded caused fresh disappointment. We finally received the thumbs up on the third day, and my heart soared as we stepped onto the helipad--my first helicopter ride! The feelings I felt as the helicopter lifted off the earth are hard to describe--but the main word that came to my mind was impossible! What an incredible machine and what an innovative species we are for making it fly. 

Our landing pad at Lake Fryxell

Taken on our flight to the Dry Valleys

The clouds hung heavy in the Taylor Valley as we crossed over the frozen sea and entered the mountains I had, until now, only seen from afar. They are the quiet strangers, standing tall across the bay, that I have been itching to form an acquaintance with. I've been known to have a poetic imagination, but I was not prepared for the ethereal world that I would find there.

A veil of clouds hang over the mountains surrounding Lake Fryxell

 After forty-five minutes of flying we landed at Lake Fryxell. As we unloaded our tools and supplies I scoped out our camp--consisting of one jamesway tent and five small, green, labs used for scientific research. After transporting some propane and tools to our work site, the helicopter flew back down the valley--taking its noise and leaving us in silence.   



The small camp at Lake Fryxell



 

I feel like I must broaden my vocabulary in order to properly describe this place. Its beauty is shocking to the system. I literally forget to breath, forget to blink. Its only when my lungs burn and my eyes sting that I remember that I am human and that I don't belong in this enchanted world. This harsh climate is a constant reminder that I am here as a visitor and to encroach on this land's grace could be disastrous--even deadly. Standing quietly, surrounded by powdered mountains and vast, clear-blue skies, in the presence of active glaciers, time seems to stand still. I feel primitive and young in such an ancient place.

Our job at Lake Fryxell was to build two polar havens--they are buildings/tents that will be used to keep scientists warm as they drill into the ice looking for discoveries. We completed the construction of one of these buildings on day one--finishing around 7pm. A spaghetti dinner in the warmth of our communal jamesway followed. After dinner I took off to see if I could get a better look at one of the surrounding glaciers. 

Our polar haven construction

Picturesque mountains framed from inside the polar haven

Distance is deceptive in Antarctica. What looks like a short walk can turn into miles and miles. It was a beautiful evening and, although I was tired from the day's work, I really didn't mind the distance. My journey took me across the frozen lake and, as I walked, shallow bubbles frozen in time cracked and popped under my feet. The sound, like pop rocks candy, made me stop dead in my tracks on more than one occasion--even though I knew that the surface was thickly frozen and impossible to breach. Still, unsettled by the sound, and my brain's active imagination, I kept my eyes down looking for signs of danger. As I walked I noticed odd shapes in the ice; clear spots where you could see bubbles--ike frozen lava lamps--at least four feet deep; And cracks that split and spliced--like frozen, hollow veins--making patterns and designs. Beautiful! I have never encountered an artist whose talent can compare to nature's. I stopped several times to kneel and brush away the snow--trying to get a better look at these works of art. I wish I had a push-broom so I could have cleared away a larger area. 

There were places where the wind had yielded its artists' chisel and sculpted the ice into mineral-like deposits--much like quartz or diamonds in appearance. The low light from the sun played off the surface and the ice became alive as it danced and sparkled. This brittle, transparent, crystalline solid held more value to me (intrinsically and extrinsically) than any diamonds that I could wear on my hands, neck, or ears.

Diamonds in the ice

 

Despite the distractions I encountered, I finally reached the foot of Newall Glacier. What an impressive sight! Standing in its shadow, dwarfed by its massive size, I once again found my self staring with wide, unblinking eyes at another one of nature's wonders. As I stood still and quiet, I began to hear cracking, and it did not come from my feet. The glacier was breathing! I heard it. It heaved and groaned from the pressure and stress of its massive size and the friction it encountered. I was a witness to morphology! I was there when the deformation of ice and gravity actively shaped and carved the Taylor Valley. I wonder what this place will look like in a few hundred-thousand years.  

Newall Glacier

After straining my ears for a while, I finally broke the glacier's spell and made the journey back to the warmth of the jamesway. I curled up in my mummy bag and slept soundly next to the furnace.  

The following morning we continued our construction of the polar havens. I love this job! They come in pieces, like a puzzle, and have to be assembled and enforced using nails, screws, and lag bolts. The final step, once they are standing, is to drill v anchors into the ice to hold the tents secure against the wind. We completed our construction project in record time--giving us a couple of hours to burn before our scheduled flight out of the valley.

Despite secretly wishing the flight would be delayed another day, the helicopter arrived on time and we loaded our gear and said goodbye to Lake Fryxell. The sky was clear and the view of the valley was pristine. En route to McMurdo I saw more glaciers, icebergs frozen in the sea ice, and random colonies of seals--their inactive, slug-like bodies sprawled out on the sea ice. 

A shot of a glacier from the air

An iceberg frozen in the sea ice

It was a beautiful adventure!--my first taste of field camps and the dry valleys. I am hoping that the future holds more tasking and more flights into the interior of Antarctica.