The Adventures of AntarcticaSean Part Three: Adventure

Continuing from Part Two: “Arrival”

“Outside one is in touch with the sternest of nature–one might be a lone soul standing . . . on Mars.”
Sir Douglas Mawson, April 9th, 1912

  Thursday:

Before I set out from Australia, I prepared a lecture describing the roles I saw myself playing in Antarctica. As an explorer, I’d be seeking data; as a scientist, I’d be fitting that data into the model of my proposal novel; as a tradie, I’d be doing my damnedest to make that novel work. Everyone has a bit of these three cultures within them, although obviously some people are more embedded in one than the others.

As I wake on my first morning in Antarctica, my focus is mainly on being an explorer, not just of the huge and obvious like icebergs et al, but of the little details that will make story sing. Big and small adventures, that’s what I want–and the idea from yesterday is still rattling around in my brain, sparking off thoughts that have nothing to do with Lone Soul Standing. I don’t know where all this is going. That’s the point of exploring, isn’t it?

The general plan is to seek opportunities and say no to none of them. That resolve is tested almost immediately, when I’m invited to join four guys in digging out an icy overhang threatening some important pipes. (I accept, and get sunburnt. In Antarctica.) But first, a mug of hot Milo and a tour of the station.

Casey is nearly full and buzzing with activity. Several projects are coming to their scheduled conclusions, including the construction of a new building and the search for some mysterious springtails. On top of that, there’s an inspection of the overall operation and a comparison between survival training on-station and the Australian defence forces. I’m worried about being a fifth (or eighty-fifth) wheel, but head of ops Steve Wall assures me that he’ll get me out on the ice at some point. Maybe I’ll give my lecture early next week. And the IT boffins promise me internet access soon, the lack of which is getting in the way of my blogging plans. This doesn’t worry me so much, though. Exploration is better than sitting in my windowless room writing.

After the meeting with Steve, I spot an official-looking sign near the front door. “SAR” stands for search and rescue. A slab of beer seems a fitting price for inconveniencing everyone by pushing the button in error. Amusingly, some expeditioners have walked past that sign for months without noticing it. Full marks to the wag who made and installed it!

At smoko, I enjoy kale soup (featuring greens grown locally, hydroponically), with fresh-baked bread and vegetarian muffins. A supply error has left the station short on fresh butter, requiring a search through emergency rations to cover the shortfall. The tins found, slightly past their best-by date but still the best butter I have ever tasted, promise to help me put on a few more pounds.

A kitchen induction follows, so we’ll know our way around without annoying the chef (this morning it’s Jordan). Then I’m off to meet Elise, the station librarian, to give her my books. She’s also the doctor wintering this year, arguably a more important role than librarian (maybe), and she’s the first person in history ever to take charge of a tank of live krill waiting to be flown back home. The way she triples duties is not out of the ordinary here. Clint the IT guy is also in charge of raising and lowering the flags outside. Simon Jodrell, Electrician, is also the postmaster and in charge of the new seismic hit. And so on. Everyone is multiskilled and unafraid to contribute. There’s no shortage of interesting conversation, that’s for sure.

Mark Grainger (Met) takes Zoë, Rebecca and I on a walk down wharf road, where we see some skuas, one distant penguin and the aforementioned krill, several thousand of them awaiting that flight home, if the weather holds. There are also heaps of antennae to admire: everywhere you look there’s evidence of science and engineering, and the hard work it takes to build down here. Quite apart from having to transport everything by boat from Australia, there’s a shortage of months in which work can be conducted outside. Everything happens to a time limit, and takes at least twice as long as it would up north.

The day is misty, but the view remains extraordinary. My eyes keep catching on straight lines and flat planes on the horizon, causing my brain to think “ship”, “building”, or “city” where none such exist. The power of pareidolia. It’s haunting, and puts me in mind of H. P. Lovecraft’s ancient ruins in At the Mountains of Madness. No shoggoths nearby, I hope.

Mark tells us there’s snow due tonight and invites us to come launch a weather balloon. I take him up on that offer. It’s a magical experience, a definite highlight for the day.

Speaking of highlights, dinner that night features chick pea curry and roast Brussels sprouts! Also, Ashleigh Wilson (Met) shows me the chilli stash, so my meal is complete. Later, I neglect to make a note of dessert. Finding a cupboard full of biscuits probably drove that important detail out of my mind.

My first full day has been long, exhausting and brilliant. There’s more to come. Tomorrow, I have been allocated slushy duty, and blizzard conditions have been forecast for Saturday. I’m so excited. This is everything I dreamed.

Friday

One very important tradition, first established by Mawson, is that the person on slushy duty gets to pick the music. (These days it’s delivered by MP3s rather than gramophone records.) I’ve heard a lot of 70s rock, which suits me just fine. Some people have played hours of country music or Rammstein. Linda Cruse (AAD Head Office) heads off my plan to inflict Gary Numan on the entire station, probably for the best. Everyone’s very patient with me not knowing where anything goes as I wash and sterilise every dish that comes my way. Noel Paten (Aircraft Ground Support Officer and legendary “repeat offender”) lets me drive a Hagg while we’re on “gash” (garbage and rubbish) duty, which is a thrill. They’re weird beasts, very stable on the icy ground but difficult to steer. I manage not to crash into anything.

As the day wears on, people drift in and out of the kitchen to help with various stages of food preparation. It’s snowing outside, which I guess has curtailed some activities. People would rather work than be bored.

Turns out I picked a great day to be slushy: that night there’s a BBQ planned to inaugurate the new building, so our duties will end early in the afternoon. Some of the station’s famous home-brew will be available at the BBQ and I’m looking forward to giving it a try, not just because it’s supposedly made with glacial water, but also because I can’t access my bank accounts in order to buy some booze from the station social club. I’m reliant on the kindness of strangers, a well of generosity that seems very deep but I don’t want to overdraw.

The BBQ reminds me of country barn parties from my youth, except that through the open shed doors I see not the yellows and browns of South Australia but the blues, whites, and blacks of Antarctica. Plus men in shorts, casually defying the snow. The food is great and the ale is strong as hell. People are playing vertical darts (dartboard lying flat on the ground next to a tall ladder) which is something I’ve never seen before. I’m feeling a bit lightheaded by the time we retire to the bar for red wine and conspiracy theories. “Ducky” (Shaun Gillens, Plumber) is full of the latter.

Everyone is happy and cheerful. It’s Friday night in Antarctica. What’s not to love?

Saturday

They say the hangovers down here are the worst. I can’t speak to that, but this morning I do have a pretty fierce headache. Must remember to drink more water! The air is so dry here it leeches the moisture right out of you.

Outside the wind is gusting to forty knots. This is wonderful! (You can watch a video here.) Johan Mets (Plant Operator) offers to take me on a stroll to the helipad at the station limits. Any further requires turning our tag and taking a radio. We pass various interesting places along the way: the giant green store where station supplies are kept; the red emergency vehicle building, above which is nestled a costume store and band rehearsal room; numerous yellow workshops and expedition stores. I’m soaking it all in. Exploring is a great cure for hangovers.

Later, Adrian and Richard take me on a tour of the power house, and the emergency power house. (I foolishly forget my gloves a second time, something I swear not to do again.) The big engines are impressive. It’s nice to meet them, even though I don’t follow everything I’m told about their operation and care. Getting to know the nuts and bolts of the station is just as fascinating to me as the environment around it. If the generators fail, there are all sorts of backups and procedures that will come into play. You can imagine: being stuck without power would lead to pipes bursting and people freezing to death. Unofficial signs taped to the boiler controls only emphasise the delicate relationship between humans and machines here. Casey is a complex beast, and I feel as though I am walking through its heart.

From there, Adrian takes me and Rebecca into Casey’s bowels: the underground spaces of the Red Shed itself, where bug zappers wait for passing flies. This doesn’t immediately strike me as strange. Not until Adrian tells us the story about fruit fly eggs arriving in fresh supplies and thriving in the sewage tanks do I remember that there are no flies native to Antarctica. They’re an invasive species and they need to be wiped out. Fortunately, the number of zapped insects in the last few years has been zero. The zappers remain, just in case.

If there are no flies or other bugs, that means there are no spiders. I’m excited by this thought. This is paradise!

One last voyage out into the wind takes me back to the costume store to look for something special to wear. Tonight is a farewell dinner for the summering crew, all of whom plan to be gone by March 10, the date of the last plane out. People packed fancy duds for this event before leaving Australia (I would have too, had I known) and the chefs have been working all day on a feast, even bigger than usual. This is something people have been looking forward to with an eagerness only those isolated for long periods on one of the last frontiers on Earth can understand.

In the store, I find Ferret (real name Darryl Seidel, Plumber) playing guitar. He doesn’t seem to mind me rummaging around, so I take the opportunity to ask him questions as I do. There have been several station bands: one, Dirty Curtains, had a line-up of nine. And his nickname is one from childhood: I was hoping for some strange station ritual, but alas. Many, such as “Scottish”, are spontaneous and self-explanatory. Most people don’t have one at all.

I’m obscurely moved to see that someone has spent the winter thoroughly organising the costume store. Among the labels I see one saying “Penguin Suits”, which I take to mean “tuxedos” until I take a closer look: the shelf contains actual penguin suits. Where else but in Antarctica? I eventually find a tuxedo jacket that will stop me from putting the Arts Fellowship to shame.

Dinner is a huge affair, followed by a disco in the Wallow, with DJing by Stuart Shaw, doubling up on his usual duties in Communications. There’s a lot of dancing. I get hot and head outside to cool down. It’s still light. The moment is beyond surreal. This is Antarctica, where one can walk from Eighties pop hits to icebergs in a step or two.

I really love it here. But the best is yet to come.

Sunday

The good news reaches six of us in the morning: we’re leaving the station to spend the night at the old Wilkes station! Built by the US in 1957 and handed over to Australia in 1959, it was abandoned a decade later and now spends most of the year under solid ice, apart from a couple of small buildings. For a short time in winter, though, you can see roofs and other structures, which I find deeply exciting. When I was young I wanted to be an archaeologist, and here I am playing at one, in Antarctica!

We’re leaving that afternoon, and there’s a fair amount of stuff to be done before then. One of the chefs injured his arm after the big dinner, so there’s a certain amount of strife caused by that, but that doesn’t interrupt a morning tea of real eggs, baked beans, hash browns and cinnamon scrolls, prepared by the one chef (Andrew) who doesn’t drink. The perfect hangover remedy for those with bleary eyes. A few of us help out in the kitchen until the official slushies emerge. Simon, aka Simmo, aka Seismo, reveals that as postmaster he can stamp our passports, which I immediately rush to get done. He lets me do the actual stamping, and I stuff it up, twice. Clearly I should never work in immigrations.

After some Tai Chi in the snow (Yang style, Sword and Diamond Fist, for the record), I head up to Mable Hut, there to observe Zoë Loh’s atmospheric science project. We cross patches of protected moss, the Daintree of Antarctica, marvelling at each species’ hardiness. The view is lovely. I feel so relaxed and warm in the hut that I actually nod off for a while. Zoë doesn’t seem to mind.

Then it’s time to kit up for our trip to Wilkes. We dress in our cold weather gear and bring various critical supplies: ingredients for pizzas, chocolate, snakes, champagne . . . the essentials, in other words. Johan and Simon will be leading the expedition, which will travel in two Haggs. Coming along for the ride are me, Zoë, Rebecca, Aki, Steve (air force), and John (navy). We’ll be staying at the Wilkes Hilton, the one building on the site still fit for human habitation. Eight is its maximum capacity, in wooden bunks and cots.

Johan is a man of few words but has a great passion for the history of Wilkes and a wonderful sense of humour once you get him going. On arrival, we spend a couple of hours touring the site, poking carefully around the ruins in amazement at what still remains. Lightbulbs, jars of produce, and so on. (There are rubbish tips nearby full of the empties, a practice that thankfully no longer occurs down here.) We see our first penguin up close. Ish. There are skuas.

On returning to the hut, Rebecca and I take turns adopting Tai Chi or Yoga poses to show off to our friends back home. The sun is creeping to the horizon as we retreat inside to start cooking. There’s a wood stove, the only one left in Australian service and possibly the last on the continent, and a gas oven. Making the pizza is a communal affair (apart from the delicious base, which was all Rebecca’s work), with lots for the vegetarians and meat lovers alike. As they cook, we settle back to drink a moderate amount of wine and snack. Simon makes up fake stories about various artefacts in the hut. I become obsessed with giving Rebecca a nickname: sadly, none of them (“Slippers”, “Cinderella”, “Eyeballs”) stick. The food tastes fantastic. Everything about this experience is fantastic.

Going to the toilet entails either pissing into a bottle or, for number twos and an experience, going to the outhouse with the best view in the world. I can’t resist, taking multiple photos for my friend Robin back home. No giant spiders to be afraid of here.

There’s a large penguin colony nearby, too far to walk but close enough to hear them squawking. They remind me of the Martians from Mars Attacks!, which is appropriate, I guess.

Behind that racket, you can faintly hear the trickle of water flowing under the ice, plus the grind and churn of icebergs bumping into each other. At one point there’s an almighty boom, like thunder. Something has collapsed somewhere, but we can’t see it. The sound echoes for a handful of breaths, then is gone, like the cliff face that caused it.

There may be few living things here, but it’s hard to avoid the feeling that the landscape itself is alive.

As the sun sets, I become obsessed with capturing every faint passing change. Light pours across the landscape, reflecting from snow, cliffs, water, icebergs, my fellow humans . . . The process takes hours, and I’m very cold by the end of it, but I refuse to give up. This is what the camera was for!

Pictures speak a thousand words, and I’ve already typed too many words, so I’ll leave the rest of this post up to them. (If you click on them, you’ll see more details, such as pink light painting the ice, two lone skuas circling the penguins below, and a mysterious ice obelisk standing proud against pink clouds.)

Except to add: before I go to sleep, on my bench next to the fire, I pull out the very copy of The Thing I read in 1982 and open to the first page. I’m instantly transported back in time. How the fifteen-year-old me would have loved to be where I am right now!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Continued in Part Four: “Aurora #1”

More photos here.

THANKS TO: Everyone named in this article, and many more besides. Everyone in Casey contributed to this incredible experience.

For other blog posts about Antarctica, click here.