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