The situation, thus far, is fantastic. Bob is the man who’s hired me, an acquaintance from the Ice. He’s an excellent teacher: patient and understanding. For the first time in my (reasonably) long career as helper/general assistant/laborer, I’m being actively involved in the work. I am a part of the entire project, from conception to design, start to finish. I am learning. No more am I left on the sidelines, struggling to find ways to help – Bob’s determined to see me made a carpenter, and I’m drinking in the skills like the dry earth outside soaks up the water.  It’s an unfinished house, as I said, which means we’re living in pieces – there’s only one sink with running water, and that’s in the outdoor toilet. Our kitchen consists of a stove, fridge and a fabricated piece of cabinet/counter top to hold food and our few mismatched utensils. These are necessarily moved around every day depending on where we’re working. The front and back doors are always open; when I prepare for dinner, I have to rinse the sawdust out of the frying pan and wipe it off the spoons. This is life in a construction site. Still, I’m incredibly house-proud, living among the work I’ve done, fixing up this and that, slowly making this empty log shell into a home.  So far, I have: filled nail holes, sanded and polyeurthaned the wood trim; nailed down loose floor boards; caulked the bathroom; patched a hole in the wood floor; hung sheetrock in the kitchen; leveled the kitchen ceiling and then fitted the entire thing with tongue-in-groove aspen boards; insulated about fifty feet of hot water pipe; and today will tackle the plumbing so that we can have a sink in the kitchen.  At the end of work every day, around 6:30, I sit on the porch, tired, splintered, and filthy, a bottle of Corona cold in my hand and sweet in my dry, dusty throat: perfect.

In our off-hours, Bob and I sit on the front porch and watch the world turn. The ranch is so removed, so peaceful. There’s a sizeable canyon on the property, about a ten minute walk from the house. It is gorgeous. Tall, reddish walls, soft and round yet full of interesting nooks and crannies and ledges and chimneys just begging to be climbed. It’s narrow – perhaps only 15 feet across, and the water at its deepest point is barely up to my neck. The path between the house and the canyon is thick with cottonwoods, wild roses and gooseberries. When Bob gave me a tour of the property, he pointed out animal prints in the dust, and lectured me on safety in the Wild West: how to survive among grizzlies, mountain lions, bobcats, lynxes, scorpions, rattlers, wolves, coyotes, moose. It’s not all bad news, though – there’s no poison ivy! During the day the sun is hot and the air is dry. Rabbits hop timidly around the driveway, magpies screech in the trees, and cicadas shrill along the fence posts. On Sunday we watched a whitetail deer and her fawn prance and feed in the field next to the house.  There are horses too, five of them, and the promise of rides and pack trips to come. At night, the earth is still and eerily quiet. There are no night birds, no crickets or frogs. Silence. Cold, too – from one hundred degrees during the day to forty at night is the norm for late June at 7,000 feet.

There’s no one else around, except for Cal and Arlene, the aging owners of the ranch. Originally from Minnesota, the two of them have spent their summers out here since 1970. Arlene’s not well, but Cal is still actively involved with the upkeep and management of the property. He cruises around in a John Deer Gator, fixing fences, digging irrigation trenches, and periodically stopping in to see if Bob and I need anything. Two nights ago Cal invited us over to watch the sun set from his porch and enjoy a glass or two of wine. Other than that small excursion, my time has been spent reading, chatting with Bob, and exploring the garages and outbuildings for items to make the little cabin more inhabitable. My best find yet has been a string of party lights shaped like red tractors; Bob nailed it up along the front porch. Now every night’s a party on our porch! Is it strange, you ask, for me to be living and spending nearly every waking minute with this forty-something-year-old man?  Maybe.  Is it going well, so, far?  Absolutely.  He gives me plenty of space and privacy, and my time out of work is my own, though we have a surprising number of things in common, and I’ve found that I enjoy his company as a friend as much as a boss.

We’re still trying to sort out the internet situation on the ranch…there’s so much more to write, but I’m feeling pressed for time.  I’ve still got to stop at the lumber yard on my way back out of town, and it’s already nearly lunchtime.  Until next time, I’ll keep swinging that hammer and you all keep sending me love – peace.

I am still at a loss to contextualize or explain my existence or my thoughts on being here in any coherent sense.  So we’ll leave off with thoughts or intellectualizing, and deal with simple facts.

I wake up.  I’m working the morning shift, so my alarm goes off at 5:12 AM.  The air in the room is dry.  My humidifier has run out of water overnight, and the dry air makes my sinuses and throat and nose feel clogged.  Dry, dry dry.  I live in the desert.  A frozen desert.  My hair has gone straight because there’s no moisture in the air to make it frizz or curl.  I no longer need to wash my face twice a day, because my pores have stopped producing oil.  I roll out of bed and look out the window.  I can see vehicles moving, working on building the sea-ice runway: blinking yellow strobes and red guiding lights bright in the sea of night.  If I’m lucky and it’s clear, the moon sits framed in the center of the window.  My roommate is already awake and down the hall, in the bathroom.  I dress in my uniform: a layer of thermals, top and bottom; black elastic-waist chef pants; a blue, collared, short-sleeved shirt; and blue baseball cap.  Socks, shoes, and my big red parka.  I tuck my hands into the sleeves and stuff them in the pockets.  Can’t be bothered putting on gloves just to walk across town.  At the end of the dorm hallway, I turn the doorknob and stand in the entry way, where snow has drifted in around the outside door, sitting in small cold piles around the trash cans.  Exiting the building involves sliding a sturdy metal latch out of the way, then slamming and re-barricading the door from the outside.

One breath is all it takes to evaluate the current weather conditions.  The slightest variation of temperature or humidity is immediately apparent, the Antarctic climate acting as an intense magnifier.  Most days the temperatures hover around -15 Fahrenheit.  We haven’t seen zero degrees or above yet.  Two days ago it was -5, and snowing!  The fine, almost substance-less crystals were The Topic of Conversation for the entire community that day.  I walk the three minutes up the hill to the galley building, where I spend ten hours and more each day.  The road is regularly graded and plowed, but the hard, rough, apple-sized lumps of volcanic rock require careful foot placement, and in areas the snow has been so compacted that it has turned to ice.  I walk like a penguin: short, shuffling steps.  The red parkas we wear (affectionately termed “Big Red”) are incredibly warm, and chock-full of pockets.  I can regularly carry my 1,000+ page copy of “Atlas Shrugged,” my Nalgene bottle, a candy bar, hat, gloves, notebook, and other cold weather gear, and still have room for more.  The fur-rimmed hoods are marvelous wind-stoppers, but also act as mufflers and blinders.  The sound of my feet on the snow and my arms rustling against my torso make it impossible to hear, and the hood’s edges effectively cancel any sense of periphery.  A person could be walking not two feet away from me and I’d never know it.  The weather changes rapidly, unexpectedly.  I may walk to work in stillness, and a half hour later take out the rubbish in 20mph winds.  Very strong winds require creative walking.  Moving directly into the wind will freeze your face faster than you can say “frostbite.”  Instead, we tilt our heads down and to one side, letting the insulated hood catch the cold blasts, marking our progress in quick, upward glances.

5:30 AM: I’m at work.  The day quickly gets boring from here.  I work in a cafeteria.  I make coffee, I clean up spills, I restock cereal and juice, I wash dishes, I wash pots, I mop floors.  I’m a supervisor, so I also make schedules, assign daily chores, teach, train, plan programs and attend meetings.  I like working in the dish room during meal times; I greet each person as they drop off their trays of messy plates and sort their silverware into soapy buckets.  It’s a very visible job, and I’m making friends quickly.  On the morning shift, I work until 4 PM, and escape into the bright day as it starts to turn towards evening.  I visit friends, I go to the gym, I enjoy the fact that my shift ends an hour and a half before the rest of town; this is precious, precious alone time.  Evenings, if I’m not wiped out and asleep by ten, I go to the coffee house for hot chocolate and Bailey’s or a glass of NZ wine.  Some nights I do yoga.  I read, I write, I cross another day off the Appalachian Trail calendar I found in Skua (skoo-ah) Central (named for the native scavenging birds, Skua Central is an impressive collection of former McMurdo residents’ discarded effects: clothes, shoes, hats, alarm clocks, toiletries, Tupperware, humidifiers, radios, costumes, books, rock climbing ropes, toys, games, boots and fabrics – all free for the taking.  It’s an wondrous system, rather like treasure hunting.  My most prized skua-ed item: an electric kettle!  This means I can have tea in my room whenever I want without needing to go upstairs to the lounge to use the microwave!).

What else can I tell you?  What do you want to know?  It’s just my life, some days brilliant, others dismal, but every day something new, something to remind me to quit my bitching and enjoy the moment.

Send me questions.  Everything, anything.  Leave me comments; send me emails.  I’ll run this like a Q and A session until I get my bearings.  What can I tell you about life on the highest, driest, windiest continent??

Perhaps two.

Maybe three moments will allow me to collect my thoughts and begin to put words to the last week.  In this quiet time, imagine that you cannot speak.  You can barely even think.  When you look out the window there is nothing but cold white ice and blowing white snow.  Pointy, steep black hills encircle your field of vision for a full 360 degrees.  The light is bright, but dusky.  Or is it dawn-like?  It’s noon.  It could go either way.  Gray.  The sun is out there, but still well below the horizon.  You haven’t seen blue sky for a week.  A haze of snow or cloud hangs over the ice-covered sound on the edge of town, obscuring the view and adding to the sense of isolation.  You’re in a cocoon of white and gray, a tiny snow globe of humanity.  The only humans in the world.

It’s impossible to be excited, or even awestruck, because it is impossible to grasp any sense of geography or landscape.  I could be anywhere.  It’s only a small voice in my head that tries to remind me that I’m in Antarctica, but I barely hear it.  I’m struggling.  With the start of work and the departure of the last flight (no way out until October), I’ve lost perspective.  “Antarctica” is only a word, a name, no longer imbued with magic and wonder and excitement.  It’s just a place, the place where I will be for the next six months.  Six months.  Suddenly that sounds like a very, very long time, and I hate myself for already counting down the days when I will be back in NZ, with Lumir.  I’ve fallen from my traveling state of zen.  I’m not myself.  “This is the opportunity of a lifetime!” I tell myself.  “This is adventure!  This is my ticket to lifelong travel!”  Like the blows of a hammer inside a soundproof room, those statements of fact go on unheard.  It will get better.  It has to.  And since I have no option but to sit tight and ride it out, well, that’s what I’m going to do.  But it’s hard.

Sunday, a week and two days ago now, the day I left Christchurch and flew to the end of the world, was the most surreal day of my entire life.  It’s possible that I actually expended my entire capacity for excitement and awe on that one day and now have no reserves to call up, which would explain my current low.  We flew on a C17, an enormous US Air Force cargo plane.  The back half of the plane was all pallets of luggage, “freshies” (fresh fruits and veggies), and supplies.  The middle was actual airline seats, five across, though I opted for one of the black plastic and canvas jump seats that ran along the side of the aircraft.  The high ceilings in the open fuselage exposed colorful pipes, machinery, wires and metal structures, and the lack of insulation allowed us to take in each and every decibel of the four huge wing engines.  Three small porthole windows, one in each side door, which I visited every time I stood up to wander and stretch my legs.  At first, just clouds and the occasional glimpse of dark blue ocean.  As we got closer, however, the word spread that there was a view to be had.  I was expecting water and maybe some icebergs…oh, my god.  I stuck my face into the porthole and what I saw literally took my breath away.  My eyes bugged, my jaw dropped.  Mountains.  Ice.  Snow.  Even from 30,000 feet, the wind-carved patterns in the snow were visible.  You can’t imagine it.  I can’t describe it.  Surreal.  Like another planet.  So removed from anything I’ve ever known or experienced…you just can’t imagine it.  Landing, because I couldn’t see any windows from my seat, was a practice in using senses other than sight.  Was that a bump?  Have we touched down?  Are the engines firing up or running down?  The same anticipation was visible, tangible, shooting like sparks from person to person, oldies and FNGs alike.  Atlas, sitting next to me, smiled and spoke in my ear: “It will be unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.”  Like a prophecy, or a blessing.  And then, finally, YES, we have landed.  The crew ran around, securing landing gear, opening the back cargo hatch for speedy unloading.  My breath plumed in front of me.  The passenger door was opened.  Like the David Bowie song, “Space Oddity” - ”This is Major Tom to ground control / I’m stepping through the door.”  And then I was standing, putting one bunny boot in front of the other, grasping the railings on the airplane door, not daring to look up until I’d actually set foot onto the ground, and then…Antarctica.  -23 degrees Fahrenheit, -60 windchill.  I spun in a circle, trying to take it all in, seeing only white, trucks, people in red parkas, my breath clouding and dispersing.  “And I’m floating in the most peculiar way / And the stars look very different today…”

Since then.  Riding the learning curve roller coaster.  Learning my job, meeting people, training my staff.  Trying to acclimate, somehow, in some small way.  Trying to stay positive, to have fun, to find the good things.  Good things so far: the people.  Wonderful.  I had been concerned that I was going to be living with Americans, but I needn’t have worried.  Ice people seem to be a race unto themselves: generous, kind, fun, friendly, interesting, open-minded.  I’ve noticed that most people here look and behave about ten years younger than they actually are.  I’ve given up trying to guess ages; it doesn’t matter here.  We’re all equals, friends.  There are only 395 of us; it’s in our best interest to emphasize similarities over differences.  Other good things…well, they’ll come in time.  I went for a hike today.  And now I’m going to try to find the greenhouse, to see if the rumors of a hammock are true.  More details of daily life to come.  Today is my day off, and I refuse to think or write about work.

This is great.  I feel like I’m in one of those science documentaries from the seventies that are shown in elementary school.  Chapter 1: preparation; meeting the team, going through the introduction of the project at hand; overview.  I am so excited.  I found it hard to sit through the classroom part.  It’s been more than a year since I’ve had to sit still and be quiet for that long.  My body was screaming for stimulation, my legs bouncing under the table.  I’ve developed a reputation already – everyone knows me as the barefoot yoga girl because I’d be out in the hallway stretching during every break.

I’m writing this from an internet cafe in Christchurch.  Back in NZ!!  Wonderful.  In ways I can’t even begin to explain.  I’m struggling, a bit, as I stretch my mind back to Sunday and work to give you all a sense of the last six days.  There’s too much.  How to tell you all the things I’ve learned?  I’ve stepped into a brand new world and to describe any of it requires reference points and background of which even I have only the faintest idea.

Sunday – flew from NH to Chicago to Denver, and checked into my flash Sheraton king-sized room.  Niiiiice.  Monday – supervisor training.  There were about twenty of us, the “leads” for our various departments.  I met Jennifer and John, my two co-lead dining attendants, both in their mid-thirties.  It’s Jennifer’s second time down, John’s first.  I met Drew and Dave, men in their late forties who have ten years previous experience on the Ice between them.  I went out for an Indian dinner with the two Ds, the conversation easy, fun and enlightening.  Tuesday – everyone else arrives, and orientation begins in ernest.  We’re a group of about one hundred.  This is “Winfly” – the first flight to go down to the continent since April.  There will be three flights after ours, each with another hundred or so staff and scientists, and then that will be it until October, when the “main body” staff deploys.  It’s quite a privilege to be part of the first Winfly group, and camaraderie is high.  Tuesday is hard, because the initial connections I’ve made with fellow supervisors are overwhelmed by the influx of our fellow 1st Winfly-ers.  Everyone knows everyone else and there’s a mad rush to catch up on the events of the last six months.  We newbies (twenty or so in total) stick close together and are slowly introduced around.

Most people are about thirty-five to forty-five, with several well into their fifties and sixties, and a few like me, in our mid-twenties.  The demographic is largely blue collar.  Tradespeople, all knowledgeable, dedicated, enthusiastic, down to earth, hands-on.  The population is split evenly between the aging hippie and the retired military.  This is a group dynamic I’m particularly interested to see played out.  We are, after all, working for a massive corporation which is in turn working for the US government.  Raytheon Polar Services (RPS), my employer, is a branch of the same Raytheon that is headquarted in Massachusetts and is connected to weapons manufacturing.  RPS is employed by the National Science Foundation, and I believe it’s this detail that allows the more liberal of us Ice workers to enjoy the not inconsiderable benefits of the job and still sleep at night.  Corporation, government or no, RPS is there to support the pursuit of science, knowledge, intellectual advancement.  I remind myself of this as I sprawl across my king sized bed and spend the generous per diem I’ve been allotted on sushi, beer, vitamins, noise-canceling headphones, new earrings…

Wednesday the entire crew is antsy, pacing and fidgeting through a morning of human resources information sessions and paperwork.  We want to go.  Shuttles depart for Denver International at noon, and after clearing security, we have several hours to roam the terminal.  Like a herd of caged lions, we pace, gathering randomly in groups of three or five for meals, scattering to write, read, nap, grouping again when we begin to sense that the time for departure is nigh.  It’s the same in LAX, where we breath deeply, stretch, and do what we must to prepare for the twelve-hour flight ahead.  I drift, meeting new people, talking, seeing my excitement mirrored in each new face, multiplying.  Uneventful flight.  Long.  Long long long long loooooooong.  I don’t sleep.  I do, however, watch “March of the Penguins,” which makes me giggle.  When we finally land in Christchurch (Friday), we’re set loose upon the city, and for the next two days the city feels impossibly tiny, as I walk and am able to recognize and name every third person I pass.  Today, Saturday, is ECW Gear day.  Extreme Cold Weather Gear!  Shuttled to the International Antarctic Center, unloaded into a massive warehouse of white insulated boots, red parkas, and enough fleece to comfortably swath the Statue of Liberty several times over, should she ever feel the need to layer.  It’s like Christmas, as we find the bags with our names on them and begin to pull out and try on article after article, a seemingly endless supply of warm, durable gear.  We fly tomorrow.  Sunday, report at 4 AM.

At this point, I’ve seen pictures, heard stories, read info packets, and had time enough to dream the events of the entire next six months…but my ideas of Antarctica remain fuzzy, distant, unreal.  But I’m going.

I am going to Antarctica.

At this time tomorrow, if all goes well, I will have been on the Ice for five hours.  Ready, set, go….

NEW ADDRESS!!

If mailing from the USA:
It’s an APO – so pricing is the same as if I were in the USA (cheap as chips!)

Susan Munroe, RPSC
McMurdo Station
PSC 469 Box 700
APO AP 96599-1035

If mailing from NZ:

Susan Munroe, RPSC
McMurdo Station
Airpost Office
Private Bag 4747
Christchurch

Important:
1) Flat mail has priority over packages.  If you’ve got something big to send, put it in a large envelope instead of boxes, otherwise I may not get it til February
2) Do not send aerosols or sprays, styrofoams, packing peanuts, etc.  Only things which can be easily recycled, burned, reused, or carried off the Ice with me – like in the mountains: Pack in, pack out.  Check with me if you’re not certain.