Letter Six
Reality is truly a cold concept in this case. The Amundsen-Scott Base at the South Pole was officially, though unceremoniously, closed for the austral winter on Valentine's Day.
Activities around the base were so hectic during the final few days before closing that when the moment of truth finally came, everyone was too exhausted to pay more than a passing notice. Someone stood up during dinner and said a few sentences. There wasn't any applause. Half a dozen or so summer stragglers flew out the next day. Then, the last cargo delivery flight departed on February 16th, leaving fifty of us behind (forty-two men, eight women), after a condensed, mass exodus of over 170 people.
The egress was more truncated than originally planned due to weather and shipping delays. The first flights scheduled to return passengers home, with stops at McMurdo Base then Christchurch, New Zealand, were delayed, and then the remaining flights bumped up in order to get everyone off The Ice before the weather turned bad again.
The delay in the first flights out allowed for a final, impromptu party and performance by our own live rock band formed for the summer.
The next day, there was a very dramatic, abrupt change in the feel around base, from crowded and hectic to eerily quiet. Now, when I stop outside of the front entrance to BioMed, there usually isn't a person in sight. We're no longer tripping over one another in the main common area, the galley, where everyone must meet to eat. Half the tables and chairs were put away for the season.
The main determining factor for planes being able to land and take off at the Pole is, not surprisingly, the temperature. Below minus fifty degrees Celsius and the planes' hydraulics stop functioning. Coincidentally, as I write this, the temperature outside is exactly 50.0 degrees, without wind-chill. How's that for cutting it close? The sun is still shining bright twenty-four hours per day, but it is circling noticeably closer to the horizon.
The Pole was never designed to support the numbers of people that were here this past summer. We were at the edge of capacity for water and power production all season. Ten years ago, fifty persons would have been considered a full complement for a summer season, and unfathomable for a winter-over population.
All along, I have been referring to this point in time, the base closing, as the "real deal." When a person came to the South Pole, knowing that he or she was a winter-over, the summer was considered a passing phase. Summer crew, invaluable as they were during this short, productive season when the lion's share of work gets done, are still somewhat disparagingly referred to as "tourists." The graffiti scrolled onto the "drag bag" flyers (instructing departing passengers when and where to take their baggage) posted around base said things like, "Get off my Pole," "Leave!" and "You're outta here!" This sounded onerous at first, but it just reinforced the huge distiction between visiting the Pole, and wintering-over at the Pole. Only about 1200 people in the history of mankind have ever wintered-over at South Pole.
The option of leaving the Pole for the next eight months will very shortly become a physical impossibility. During the last week, I was cross-trained to function as a communications technician for the few remaining flights. This can be added to my list of other job titles - physician, dentist, nurse, secretary, x-ray and lab technician, power-plant watcher, dishwasher, and janitor.
The atmosphere around here is very hard to describe just now. I was feeling a bit numb during the transition, but now the mood has shifted to one of calm resignation, even a bit upbeat. There's a saying on the Pole that you haven't seen someone's true personality until after the last flight leaves. So although I see our young group as being very optimistic, I think there is still a 'wait and see' attitude that will prevail for the next few weeks.
Nearly everyone seems relieved by the uncrowding. There are about ten OAE's (Old Antarctic Explorers) in our group that have wintered-over before. Their "ice time" seniority grants them unofficial rank, and their advice on nearly all matters is considered sage and golden. For the remaining majority of us, this is a first time experience, although one is instantly promoted to an OAE after the final flight departs.
Since the weather turns too cold to run any heavy equipment outdoors, the main entrance to The Dome is sealed shut with two huge doors to keep out the snowdrift. People still have to go outside every day, particularly the "beakers" (scientists) checking on their experiments out at the Dark and Clean Air Sectors, which are a few hundred meters away from The Dome. Some people, who work and live under The Dome are at risk of becoming Dome Slugs during the dark winter by never setting foot outside, but so far I am keeping a resolution to at least poke my head out each day.
By all measures, the summer season was a resounding success. No one was seriously injured, although I did "medevac" three people off The Ice who were unable to return. The base looks physically different compared to when I first arrived with the completion and ground-up construction of a huge, new power plant arch. All goals set by the National Science Foundation this summer for construction and science were met, on time and on budget. The United States Antarctic Program is known for that, and looked upon with immense respect by other agencies within the federal government. The work ethics and standards down here are among the highest I've ever encountered.
Now, we've reached the beginning of the long, isolated winter in the coldest, most inhospitable place on the planet. This is what we signed up for. Bring it on.
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