Evan's Travels

2012-02-06T13:25:00.001-08:00

http://scottyvincent.com/trest.php

A quick word about WAIS

2009-10-19T16:13:00.000-07:00

The field camp where I'll be working this season is WAIS Divide. This will be my first season at a field camp. WAIS is known as the 'Hilton' of field camps because we have a shower facility (we are allowed four minutes of hot water/week, which is equivalent to a 55 gallon drum of packed snow) and a washer/dryer. That said, we will be sleeping in tents.
I could leave as early as tomorrow, but the mixture of weather delays and contingency plans could delay me for quite a bit. I will be a member of the 'put-in' crew that flys in aboard a Basler. We will de dropped off on the flat white, the plane will leave, and then things will begin to get real. Our fist task will be to clear the snow drift that has accumulated during the winter on the structures, vehicles, and cargo. Our crew is essentailly a load of glorified snow shovelers.
A few facts about WAIS:
WAIS Divide is located at 79 dregress, 28 minutes South by 112 degrees, 03 minutes W with an elevation of 1759 meters. Thats about 3500 feet lower than the South Pole. We are 3.5 hours away from McMurdo by Herc and at leaest 5.5 hours by Basler. Summer Seasonal Temperatures at WAIS range from -45 degress C and -5 degress C with constant, sustained wind between 8 and 25 knots. So my season will be a bit warmer than last year, but the weather will be significantly more gnarly. WAIS Divide is notorious for shut-in storms that last for days. Our field season is approximately 110 days this year, weather permitting, during which time we open our 400 sq. foot winter camp into a 4 acre camp. Our primary science focus is supporting the ice core drilling project (which is projected to reach sa level this season!), but our crew of 14 will support 11 other NSF grantee groups as well. In addition, we will work 50-odd LC-130 missions and another 50-some KBA (Baslers, twin otters) fly days. So, story short - all work, little play. But I am terribly excited about the crew I am working with, and I'm looking forward to my best season yet!

Evan's on Ice address'

2009-10-19T15:51:00.000-07:00

Howdy folks,
In case you are interested,
I've listed my 'on ice' mailing and email address' below.
I will have periodic internet access at camp, but bandwidth restrictions will not allow for the use of gmail or yahoo mail. Please use the USAP email address listed below. That account will not be active until mid-November, and pics/ attatchments will probably be too large for me to open.

Mailing
Evan Brost, RPSC
McMurdo Station - WAIS Divide
PSC 469 Box 700
APO AP 96599-1035

Email
Evan.Brost.contractor@wais.usap.gov

Sydney

2009-09-30T14:07:00.000-07:00

Before our return to the US, we splurged on a week in Australia: we flew Arab Emirates out of Auckland into Sydney (by chance - it was the cheapest fare on kayak!). That was the only flight I have ever taken that I can say that I actually enjoyed.
Our seven days in Sydeny were pretty redundant: hike in the afternoon, go to the Sydeny Opera House in the evening, and treat ourselves to Gelato at night - wake up and repeat . . .
We saw four Opera's (The Magic Flute, Werther, Lady Macbeth of Minsk, and Madama Buterrfly) and a Tom Stoppard play (Travesties) in six days. Pure Ecstasy.

This was a popular day hike along Bondi Beach

Another hike near the North Head outside of Manly, near the entrance of the massive Sydney Harbour

New Zealand

2009-09-30T12:22:00.001-07:00

Post Ice Leslie and I had a few weeks in everyone's favorite country. Not that we could forget, but we were once again reminded why NZ is such an easy and wonderful place to travel.
We started out with a hike up to the Mueller Hut, overlooking Mount Cook. After a full season of walking on only the flat white plateau, a six hour vertical scramble up to the hut proved to be a serious challenge. But I waddled up before the sun set and was rewared for my efforts . . .

Another highlight of our trip was a climbing trip near Wanaka. My friends Aric and Sarah were kind enough to take take a wreckless newbie under their wing and save my life on multiple occasions . . .

Ammo belt of snickers?

Tonga

2009-07-20T13:50:00.000-07:00

We went to Tonga . . . where to begin? Well, I'll start with the why, move on to to the how, transition into the when, glide through the what, and finish with a triple lutz. You'll have to hang on by the seat of your sequin studded tights.
Leslie and I were trying to figure out where to travel once we left the Sout Pole, and we fell upon some ice cheap tickets to Tonga (ice is the dirt of the south). Cuddled together in our quonset hut, and connected wirelessly to the Virgin Air website, we booked a ten day return plane ticket to a place that we knew not a single thing about.
After three weeks of the type of fun that only New Zealand can offer (think Vegas, but wholesome), we departed for the island nation of Tonga.
Here's a few background facts about Tonga, in case you are interested. Tonga is a constitutional monarchy and claims to be the only South Pacific island nation to have avoided direct colonization. The Archipelago comprises 169 islands, 36 of which are inhabinted. The spattering of islands are split into three main groups: Ha'apai, Tongatapu, and Vava'u, plus the uniquely rain-forested island of Eua. If you drew a line from Auckland to Hawaii, 1/2 of the way there you would find Tonga. Half of Tongan's live abroad, and remittances consist of a significant, if not the only, source of income for many Tongans. Many suplement their income with subsistence farming - root crops, coconut, banannas, vanilla beans . . . There is little 'industry', tourism or otherwise, to speak of. The main export is squash - go figure. The islands are covered, literally covered, in coconuts trees, whcih have become a relic of the past. The coconut oil market flattened, and now millions of the nuts fall to the ground and rot. Coconut flesh is considered 'pig food'. There is a large Chinese immigrant population, and despite the xenophobia of some Tongans, they have gained a foothold in the capitol city of Nuku'alofa, on the main island group of Tongatapu. As you ride the streets, you find a chinese grocery every block or so. The Chinese often provided the most variety and best quality at the vegetable market pictured below) in Nuku'alofa.

My first impression upon arrival to the country: Tongans are some big mother%$&#$'s. The average weight of a Tongan woman is almost 100 kilograms (you do the math) - 70% of the women aged 15-85 are obese. I'm sure the men aren't far behind. It didn't take long to gain insight why this is . . .
Leslie and I landed in Tongatapu, the main island of the Tongatapu island group and home of the Tongan capitol city, Nuku'alofa, in early March. The first thing that hits you (hopefully not the massive Tongan on the airplane, whom was inhabiting not only their seat, but 2/3 of yours) was the humid heat. Determined to make the most of our short trip (11 days), Leslie and I made some ambitious plans. The first day we rented bicycles and attempted to circumnavigate the island. After a few wrong turns, we trimmed our goals down to simply finding our way back to our hostel. Five hours in the Tongan sun burned our skin and paled our will. You could actually feel the energy draining from you in the heat, floating away like a soap bubble. You couldn't lay down, becasue when you got up, you would feel even weaker. And when you were up, all you could think of was finding a fan and a hammock. The first thing a visitor to Tonga has to learn is that you have to ditch your breakneck tourist speed, and adopt a Tongan speed of life. Tonga offers a whole new definition to the expression, "Island time". At first, you want to speed past the pedestrians as they lazily plop down the street, then you learn that they move at an ant's pace, literally, for a reason - to conserve energy in the endless sun. They speed up for no one, and they slow down for no one (or car, for that matter). Mid afternoon, nearly everyone was found sitting down, under a tree. Some Tongans apparently did very little, and some rose very early to work, but they all operated on island time.
Leslie and I did our best to prevent our energy levels from sagging too low. The heat definitely forced us to adjust our itineraries. A siesta became the norm. We checked out the craft and vegetable markets, and toured the island. There wasn't much to see really - mostly flat coconut fields and shantytown neighborhoods. We visited an underground cave lake and went for a swim, which was pretty out there. Some foods were cheap, some were not. Generally, prices were higher than you might expect for a country with a barely visible monetary sector. Generally, Tongans did not haggle for a price. I was struck a couple of times by an apparent indiffernce to money (not to say that we didn't encounter greed, either).
After seeing all there was to see on Tongatapu (which only requires a few days), we decided to skip town for the island group of Ha'apai. You have two options when travelling between island groups: ferry or plane. The inverse variables are, of course, time vs money. We opted for a ferry. After a day long search for the ticketing 'office' of the ferry company, that led us to the port authority, the docks, a liquor store, the tourist 'information' center, a brewery, and an unmarked office building, we purchased two one way tickets to Foa island of the Ha'apai group. This was the 'non-touristy' place to travel aboard the distinctly 'non' touristy ferry. The lady who ultimately led us to the ticketing office for the ferry (who also happened to be the tour guide at the only Tongan brewery), highly discouraged us, with an exaggerated finger in the throat display, from taking the ferry. In typical fashion, that only encouraged me, despite my weak stomach . . . Leslie was sporty enough to go along for the ride.
The Ferry ride turned out to be a distinctly memorable experience, but not for the reasons we had feared:
Surprsie #1: We boarded the ferry at 10:30 pm, which was the exact ETD. We had been warned that the boat is prone to leave several hours early or late, without notice, due to any mumber of factors - mechanical, tardiness of the cargo, tardiness of the workers, weather, etc . . .
Surprise #2: We were the only gringo's on board (along with our new friend in whiteness solidarity - Johanna), among a sprawl of locals sitting among hills of clothed goods.
Surprise #3: The sea was as calm as a Tongan at noon. We endured only a slight rocking throughout the trip, and we were able to maintain control of our stomachs.
Surprise #4: Despite the regularity of nightly thunderstorms at this time of the year, we remained dry the entire night. This was a godsend, as we were hunkered down on the open deck. The few spots on the vessel that afforded cover had been snatched up by the pushing hordes that fought their way onto the boat first. We were relieved and comforted by the sight of the hazy orange moon throughout the night.
Surprise #5: Despite starving and dehydrating ourselves during the day, we were unable to avoid using the bathrooms during our twelve hour ride - maggot infested bowls and sloshing sewage tsunamis on the rusting floors. I think I have PTSD.
Surprise #6: The tourists from Singapore with a laser pen. Yep, they packed a laser pen, on their ferry ride in Tonga.
Surprise #7: The ferry arrived late morning, as scheduled and on time, to the island of Foa. There was a slight delay for offload; we had to wait while they delivered a body to an awaiting funeral procession onshore. Tongans have an extensive mourning period; immediate family members will live by the grave for a month.
Surprise #8: Sadly, this ferry sank in late August this summer - falling to the ocean floor with dozens still inside.

Once on the island, we trudged through the heat down the only road on the island, searching for a hostel. A kind soul took pity on the fish out of water, and drove us to a lady who rented out rooms in her house. We were happy to have arrived, and took two rooms (we were now travelling with Johanna, a young German girl). We were simply glad to be out of the sun, and we had landed in a gorgeous location . . .

. . . but we soon found that we had made a rash decision. The rooms were dirty, and the kitchen was . . . well, lets just say it was a meal in progress, a very . . . exotic meal in progress. Normally, I wouldn't be fazed. But we were hot, sweaty, and just a little traumitzed from the conditions on the boat. We wanted to get away from the infestation . . . and the next day we did. We set off early-ish to make a low tide crossing to the uninhabited island of Likufa. Our hitchhiking attempts were less successful than the day before, and we ended up attempting our island crossing a bit late. The current was surging, but only knee deep - we made it across in an hour or so.

Along the way, we met Ron (pictured below), who was making the crossing on horseback in order to feed the pigs he kept on Likufa.

We chatted it up and Ron invited us over to his hut. There, he called his animals with a conch he had pulled from the reef, and then proceeded to put on an impressive pig feeding show, in which he masterfully split fallen coconuts in thirds with superbly aimed machete blows (his hand only cm's away). He then climbed a coconut tree and retrieved a few nuts for us to drink from. We were equally parts impressed and grateful. Ron had mentioned that he kept horses, and we asked him to guide us on horseback around the island. He agreed to bring horses over the next day.
Delighted, we spent the rest of the afternoon and evening absorbing the absolute paradise that surrounded us. We had a fairtale beach to ourselves, with what must have been world-class snorkeling, and all the cocnuts in the world. All I can say is WOW.

Our night was not as pleasant. The breeze calmed and the mosquitos swarmed. We were travelling light, without spare clothing, sleeping bags, or a tent, and had nowhere to hide. Not much sleep was had that night, and we were glad to find the sunrise. Ron trudged over with three horses early in the morning, and we mounted up. It was a brutally hot day, and the horses were none too happy to oblige our commands, but Ron was able to keep them in line. We plopped along the beach, while Ron shadowed the shore with a crumpled fishing net in hand. Suddenly, the net would sail, extending over the water in a perfect arc. Ron had the skills, and before long he had lunch and dinner for not only the four of us, but his family as well.. He said he was having a good day - I wonder if he was being modest. By noon, our butts were sore, our throats dry, our skin reddened, and our minds were slowing. It was time for a watering hole, but we had only trekked halfway around Likufa. Enter luck. We came upon a fala on the beach. We informed Ron that we needed a break, and water, and that we were going inland to explore. We found ourselves on a modern compound of buildings, fala's, shade structures, and water tanks. We had come upon an empty resort - the kind of place that comes with a pricetag above our means.

A man named Semi (pronounced Sammy) approached and asked us if we wanted some coffee. We respectfully declined but requested water. He returned quickly with our full water bottles and began to explain what he was doing in an empty resort, by himself, on an uninhabited island. Semi was the caretaker of the resort, and fiance to an American from LA, who was financing the project. He was caretaking while she got the website going. He hadn't had guests in over a month, and was dreadfully bored. He invited us to stay a few days, to allay his boredom. The only payment he requested, was a few games of UNO. The joy began to bust from our guts, and we meekly and cheerily accepted his invitation. He made up a bed for us in a Fala on the beach made from Indonesian hardwood. Plush would be an understatement. We spent the next two days enjoying paradise from the lap of luxury. Semi was an overly gracious host and a self-defeatingly honest UNO player. It was too much - we were awe-struck by our good fortune.

Before long, however, it was time to make our way back to the main island to catch our flight, and we bid a heart-sinking farewell to Semi.
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you Semi - our gratitude is inexpressable . . .

Ice Halo's

2009-07-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

Polie's often witness a meteorological phenomenon that appears to be rainbows in a clear sky. They refer to them, sometimes incorrectly, as sundog's. The word they are looking for is 'Ice Halo'. Sundog's are the most common form of the Ice Halo's that we witness in the Antarctica Summer sky.

A sundog is often celebrated at the South Pole Station, as it is something to look at that is not flat and white . . .

According to wiki,

A halo (ἅλως; also known as a nimbus, icebow or Gloriole) is an optical phenomenon produced by ice crystals creating colored or white arcs and spots in the sky. Many are near the sun or moon but others are elsewhere and even in the opposite part of the sky. They can also form around artificial lights in very cold weather when ice crystals called diamond dust are floating in the nearby air.

There are many types of ice halos. They are produced by the ice crystals in cirrus clouds high (5–10 km, or 3–6 miles) in the upper troposphere. The particular shape and orientation of the crystals is responsible for the type of halo observed. Light is reflected and refracted by the ice crystals and may split up into colors because of dispersion. The crystals behave like jewels, refracting and reflecting sunlight between their faces, sending shafts of light in particular directions.

Often times, at the South Pole, the precipitation in the cold air will form ice crystals. The light reflects and refracts off the ice crystals suspended in the air. This produces ice halo's. Different types of crystals in the atmosphere will produce up to 22 'types' of halo's in the sky, creating a magnificent show!

Photographing Sundogs is bit of a trick, because you have to aim your lense directly into the sun. The majority of these photos are borrowed from South Pole photographers

The Great Nandor Kovats

2009-07-18T22:29:00.000-07:00

If you ever meet this man - shake his hand, for you are in the presence of the Messiah. I know you think that I am joshin' ya, but I am not. I had a vision one night, after run in with the ice luge, and it all became perfectly clear to me . . .

My great bud, Aric . . . oh the glory days.
I miss ya, pal

The Race around the World

2009-07-18T21:40:00.000-07:00

One of those traditions unique to the South Pole is the 'Race Around the World'. Each year on Christmas Day, Antarcticans gather for a 5k race that loops around the geographic South Pole. For some, the race is competitive (the winner gets a 'boondoggle' to McMurdo Station, where they will compete in the Mcmurdo Marathon - the South Pole entry in the race usually fares well, as he/ she has trained all season at elevation but races at sea level). For others, it is merely a chance to dress up and go for a jog/ walk. Still others are still partying from the night before and trying to fend off the impending hangover.
Its a wonderful way to celebrate the holiday in uniquely Antarctican fashion. After the race, everyone gathers in the galley for Christmas brunch. Its all about making the most of those precious few days off.

Here I am donning my classic cow suit - I never race in Antarctica without it

Traditional holiday wear among that strange tribe called 'the Antarcticans'

Norge Traverse

2009-07-18T21:07:00.000-07:00

Below are a number of photos of the Norwegian Traverse. This last summer season, the Norwegian science group, in collaboration with the NSF and the folks at South Pole, completed the return leg of their traverse from the Pole to Troll Station. Last season, the group traveled to Pole from Troll, and hunkered their equipment down for the winter.
The science completed on this journey centered around climate change research: ice cores, radars, thermistor strings, gravity readings (http://traverse.npolar.no/expedition-diary/archive/2009/02/20/science-highlights-of-the-2008-09-season-1).
They were a wonderful group to work with and I wish them the best over the next two years as their research continues.

This is a 'crevasse finder' - undergroud radar readings warn of 'gaps' under the snow surface. As one scentist told me, however, the crevasse finder does not tell you when you are about to run into a crevasse, it tells you when are already on top of one . . .

There were four vehicles, or 'piston bully's', in total, each tugging a caravan of sleds. This one was dedicated to hauling fuel.

Science Equipment

Living Quarters for ten

This is Louz, proudly showing off her ice drill. Louz explained to us that drilling the perfect core is a true art form

This miniature plane was catapulted into the air, where it would circle a large swath of ice and take radar readings . . . Neat-O!

A Global Appeal

2009-07-18T21:04:00.000-07:00

Obama-mania during the inauguration and election . . .

Ice Sculptures

2009-06-26T16:46:00.000-07:00

Each year, during the holiday season, the heavy equipment operators search out large chunks of fern suitable for carving. An ice sculpture competition is held on New Year's. Here are a few of the more artistic and least vulgar entries . . .

Ultimate Frisbeeeee

2009-06-26T16:29:00.000-07:00

As the cargo crew awaited the air drop, we amused ourselves with frisbees. Catching a frisbee, wearing FDX boots, four layers beneath insulated carhart's, goggles, and mittens is a learning curve.

Below are Aric & Sarah and Elly. They were my rocks this season

50 Trillion every second!

2009-06-26T15:40:00.000-07:00

With a budget of nearly 300 million, the Ice Cube project, out of the University of Wisonsin at Madison, is the largest science project currently operating in the Antarctic. "Ice Cube" is a massive neutrino detector.

According to Wiki,

"Neutrinos (meaning: "Small neutral ones") are elementary particles that often travel close to the speed of light, lack an electric charge, are able to pass through ordinary matter almost undisturbed and are thus extremely difficult to detect. Neutrinos have a minuscule, but nonzero mass. They are usually denoted by the Greek letter ν (nu).

Neutrinos are created as a result of certain types of radioactive decay or nuclear reactions such as those that take place in the Sun, in nuclear reactors, or when cosmic rays hit atoms. There are three types, or "flavors", of neutrinos: electron neutrinos, muon neutrinos and tau neutrinos;

Most neutrinos passing through the Earth emanate from the Sun, and more than 50 trillion solar electron neutrinos pass through the human body every second."

According to the IceCube website,

"The IceCube Neutrino Detector is a neutrino telescope currently under construction at the South Pole. Like its predecessor, the Antarctic Muon And Neutrino Detector Array (AMANDA), IceCube is being constructed in deep Antarctic ice by deploying thousands of spherical optical sensors (photomultiplier tubes, or PMTs) at depths between 1,450 and 2,450 meters. The sensors are deployed on "strings" of sixty modules each, into holes in the ice melted using a hot water drill.

The main goal of the experiment is to detect neutrinos in the high energy range, spanning from 10¹¹eV to about 10²¹ eV. The neutrinos are not detected themselves. Instead, the rare instance of a collision between a neutrino and an atom within the ice is used to deduce the kinematical parameters of the incoming neutrino. Current estimates predict the detection of about one thousand such events per day in the fully constructed IceCube detector. Due to the high density of the ice, almost all detected products of the initial collision will be muons. Therefore the experiment is most sensitive to the flux of muon neutrinos through its volume. Most of these neutrinos will come from "cascades" in Earth's atmosphere caused by cosmic rays, but some unknown fraction may come from astronomical sources. To distinguish these two sources statistically, the direction and angle of the incoming neutrino is estimated from its collision by-products. One can generally say, that a neutrino coming from above "down" into the detector is most likely stemming from an atmospheric shower, and a neutrino traveling "up" from below is more likely from a different source.

The sources of those neutrinos coming "up" from below could be black holes, gamma ray bursters, or supernova remnants. The data that IceCube will collect will also contribute to our understanding of cosmic rays, supersymmetry, weakly interacting massive particles (WIMPS), and other aspects of nuclear and particle physics.

Congratulations! I didn't expect you to actually read this far. Your reward - pictures - are oh so close - Yay!

So, to condense what was described above, Ice Cube is a series of 47 holes, each drilled 1 km deep into the Plateau polar ice. Each hole is stuffed with a string of 60 sensors. The result is a sqaure km 'cube' in the ice, which is used to detect neutrinos. Scientists are searching for the neutrino's that have passed all the way through the Earth, through the Antarctic continent, and through the polar cap. Basically, they are using the polar ice cap as a filter, to distinguish between neutrino's from the sun and neutrino's from elsewhere in the universe. These distant neutrino's, once detected, indicate the location of a massive, distant energy sources.

Inside the red shack is a generator that heats the water for the hot water drill. The km deep holes require a very long hoses to deliver the hot water to the drillhead.

All 7 hot water heaters on full blast!

Watch your step - its a km down - you might freeze before you hit bottom.

The sensors, or DOM's, deployed on a string down the hole

Deploying the DOM's

Ice Cube Camp

The Ice Cube Lab, or ICL. The strings of sensors, once deployed down the holes, are connected to a cable that runs underground to the ICL and up the towers, or 'beer cans' on either side of the building. The cables feed into computers on the second floor of the structure, where the data is processed.

The only chance I'll ever have of being a hero . . .

2009-06-25T17:04:00.000-07:00

One of the more glorious of the Antarctic traditions - the Hero Shot!

Hmm, look at all those pasty boys . . . just wait until they descend upon the beaches of New Zealand.

There's a strange dude down there who looks exactly like me - uncanny, huh!?!

I still don't understand how gravity works

The Antarctic Tourists

2009-06-25T14:50:00.000-07:00

Whenever I meet someone new, my main focus is usually avoiding the question, "So, what do you do?". This is a difficult question to duck. When an individual discovers my means of employment, often times they aren't so much interested in learning about my experiences in Antarctica as they are in discerning what kind of lunatic would want to go to Antarctica. This is a question to which the answer is obvious but difficult to express in words; thus it is a question that I try, in vain, to avoid.
Being baffled about the motivations behind a trip to the Antarctic, however, is something that I came to understand a little better this season.
Each year, the South Pole Station receives a large number of tourists. Some fly in, some drive, and some ski. The first two categories of tourists are people who simply want a picture at the South Pole (That hero shot will cost them tens of thousands of dollars). On the other hand, the breed of tourist that ski's in . . . well, that baffles me for different reasons. To spend 40 or 50 days, trudging through the monotony of the flat white, with no scenery, no sunset, no support, no landmarks, in the most extreme of conditions, risking life and limb, literally, to reach a particular latitude, whose only significance is that mapmakers termed it "The South Pole". This is a strange reason to risk your life, to invest years in fund-raising and training, to drag your loved ones through hell, to push your body to it's limits. The South Pole is a meaningless point on the map, that looks exactly like every other point on the Polar plateau. It baffles me, but I also understand that some people are simply driven to do certain things, to meet certain challenges, to push oneself for the purpose of pushing oneself - its a drive that cannot and should not be ignored.

This season, a man named Todd Carmichael (pictured above) set the land record for unassisted and unaided travel to the South Pole from the coast (over 700 miles in just over 39 days). His story is an incredible one, and I do not have time to do it justice here, but I would recommend reading up on his adventures (this is his website: http://www.subzerosolo.com/). After Todd arrived at the South Pole, dizzied and frost bit, he was welcomed into the station and received medical care. After a brief recovery time, he gave a short presentation about his expedition. Of the many incredible things he spoke of, one thing stuck out in mind. He said, "This is a cool community - I know it because, I've been here for a few days, and nobody has asked my 'why' yet".

Below are a number of photos of the tourist camp. Tourists live in a groomed 'tourist area' in their tents. The United States Antarctic Program, or USAP, provides a poop tent, a tour of station, and medical services in case of emergency, and nothing more. Tourists are expected to be completely self-supporting until their ride comes (usually a twin otter). Some kind souls sneak the most hardcore of tourists cookies and beer, at risk of their job . . .

The gear is pretty standard - skis and a sled and a shit ton of willpower

The Air Drop

2009-06-25T14:20:00.000-07:00

The South Pole station is serviced primarily by the C-130 aircraft with ski's attached to the landing gear. The C-17's, which service McMurdo Station (They land on a glacier 13 miles from the Base) are too heavy to land on the airstrip at the South Pole. Each year, however, the air force employs the C-17's to do an 'air drop' at the South Pole. The air force appreciates the practice and the NSF appreciates the free cargo shipment. The South Pole Personnel, who have to clean up the resulting mess, are only ones unhappy about it . . .

Cargo Personnel working their way out to the drop zone. The South Pole Station lingers on the horizon.

The Drop Zone

This is what happens when the chute malfunctions . . .

Somebody thought it would be a good idea to air drop fifty pound sacks of flour . . .

. . . and from Below

2009-06-23T21:59:00.000-07:00

Beneath the South Pole Station is a series of interconnected underground tunnels. These passages are not designed, as one might suspect, for efficient, easy travel between buildings, but as a means of transporting the station's water and sewage.
One pipe carries drinking water in and the other carries sewage out. The mechanics behind it all are actually quite interesting.

These tunnels were built over a decade ago with a one of a kind piece of equipment. The snow on the surface is dry and compact, perfect for shoveling and manipulating. As you dig deeper, however, the snow changes into what's called fern. Fern is the stage between fluffy snowflakes and solid ice. The Pressure of the weight of the snow above has removed about half the air from between the H20 molecules. The bend in the wall is not an illusion - the weight of the precipitation above is slowly collapsing the tunnels. Fern is rigid and crystalline, and is manipulated with a chainsaw, not a shovel. Large chunks of fern are good for snow sculptures.

As the tunnels descend into the surface snow, fern begins to appear at a depth of about 20 feet. The tunnels are evenly graded to a depth of 35 feet below the surface snow. The temperature in the tunnels is a constant -60 degrees F.

Along the main line tunnel there are several off-shoots. These side tunnels all lead to a past, present, or future Rodriguez well. Waste heat from the generators is captured in glycol and then cycled underground in the sleeves of the water intake pipes.

These intake pipes span the tunnels and then reach underground, warming the fern and ice below. After a year of cycling waste heat into the ground via the tunnel system, a vast balloon of liquid water, up to four hundred feet deep, forms beneath station. This is what's called a Rodriguez Well, and will provide water for the station for a couple years. Once the liquid water is consumed, and the resulting cave begins to encroach upon the danger of collapsing, we close the 'Rod' well down and fill it with our sewage. At that point, the station will begin drawing water from the a different side tunnel, which will have been 'prepped' or warmed with waste heat during the previous twelve months.

Pictured below is a building constructed over a Rodriguez well.

The picture above illustrates the process of draining a Rodriguez well. You can see the water being sprayed out in the foreground. A question may pop into your head, "Why would we drain that a well that we spend a year's worth of waste heat to create?". Well, that is a wonderful question. Here's the answer. The underground piping laid between this particular well and the station, was rated to -20F. The constant temperature underground is -60F. Oops. So the well became useless, and was drained to make way for all of our poop. No biggee, just a couple hundred thousand dollar mistake. But look on the bright side of things - the draining process created some really cool snow mounds . . .

Whew! Hopefully that all makes sense to you. And hopefully it doesn't make sense to you that we spray Benjamin's onto the polar plateau and drop our waste in the ground. In 10,000 years, a massive, ten-ton poop-sicle is going slide into the ocean. It will be a good day for geologists, and a very bad day for an unsuspecting penguin.

This is Scott, our tour guide through the tunnels. He helped construct the tunnels, so many years ago, and had a corresponding depth of knowledge about the tunnel system matched by no one.

From Above

2009-06-23T21:08:00.000-07:00

Each summer season, one lucky photographer gets the gut wrenching opportunity to map the South Pole Station, with his camera, from high above in a fast flying, quick turning twin otter aircraft. This is done, not only because its pretty damn cool to have aerial photos of the ever shifting, ever growing station, but also to aid the surveyor's and track snow drifting.

This is 'Downtown' Amundsen-Scott Station - measuring about one square mile. In the right forefront is the 'new station'. In the left forefront is the 'old' station - the dome sinking in the snow.

The new station, or 'elevated station', was dedicated last summer, but has been inhabited for several years now. You can see in the photo, the black siding is still being installed. The elevated station is raised above the ground on pillars. This serves a dual purpose: 1) The Windward side of the station (the side you see in the photo) is beveled at the bottom, like a wind foil, to increase the speed of the wind as it passes underneath the station. Drifting snow is then blown under the station and out the other side, as opposed to drifting up the walls of the structure. 2) As the pillars sink in the ground, a series of hydraulic lifts will raise the station and new pillars will be installed on top of the old pillars. This will be done every ten to fifteen years, as needed. Pretty rad, huh! When I think of the elevated station, I think of a moon base. Its actually that cool.

This is the old station. As you can see, it is inevitably losing the battle that every structure at the South Pole will lose. It is sinking in the snow, and being drifted in . . . silly place to build a research base, huh.

Pictured below are the 'berms'. Anything on the ground, over time, drifts in with snow, and the berms are a method of preventing cargo from getting buried. Heavy machinery is used to compact snow mounds, about four feet high and hundreds of feet long. Cargo is then placed on top of these plateaus or 'berms'. Everything from Caterpillar engines to toilet paper to french fries is stored on the berms. Its a low tech solution that doesn't really work - buts its the best we got. Any building constructed to store cargo would simply sink and drift in.

This is the airstrip, a groomed, compact snow surface used by the Baslers, Twin otters, and LC-130's.

On the left side of the airstrip is the 'dark sector' or the telescope suburbs of the South Pole Station. Several telescopes operate here and during winter, windows and headlights are covered up throughout the station to prevent light pollution from entering the dark sector.

The Ten meter telescope. This, the largest and most modern, of the telescopes at the South Pole, was built primarily to search for galaxy clusters.

This is a good example of how the snow drifts on the polar plateau, with piles forming on the leeward side of a structure. The fuel tanks pictured below provide a wind block, which allows snow to settle behind the tanks. And then drifting begets drifting, and the tanks, with all their fuel, disappear during winter. As you can see, its very important store things strategically and make detailed maps.

'Tis the Season to be Jolly

2009-06-23T20:07:00.000-07:00

A personality trait common to many of the worker’s down here is the ‘work hard, play harder’ ethic. Most days are dominated by working, eating, and sleeping, but when an opportunity to let loose comes along, such as the two day weekend associated with Thanksgiving and Christmas, we tend to make the most of it.

Holy Jesus! A tree in Antarctica!

Christmas caroling cross-continent over the HF radio

My South Pole favorites!

Months of Greenhouse Veggies fill out the fabulous kitchen staff's Holiday efforts

The candles on the table are a violation of the Antarctic Treaty, but the pig head is not. Don't think about . . . just accept it

And onto the real meat of the holiday season . . .

choreographed dances . . .

and not so choreographed dancing

Dear Grammy,
Listen kiddies, don't be scared, South Pole Santa is just a little, errr, . . . different from North Pole Santa - especially when mommy and daddy leave out the egg nog . . .

A happy 'Camper'

2009-06-23T19:18:00.000-07:00

A Jamesway is Quonset hut, essentially a large semi-cylinder, wooden framed, canvas tent. I live in a tiny room in a Jamesway, among, give or take, 100 other people living in a cluster of Jamesways affectionately and ironically referred to as ‘Summer Camp’ (Pictured below from above . . . huh?).

Rooms in the Jamesways consist of three canvas curtains and the insulated canvas wall draping the wooden frame. The floors and walls are freezing, (don’t leave your pee bottle on the ground at night!), but a heating duct spans the apex of the structure. The lone piece of furniture is a decades old, smooshy bed. The building is divided into half by a dark, red-light lit hallway that runs the length of the structure and leads to doors at either end. Due to shift variability, quiet hours are 24-7. Every creak of the bed, every squishy footstep of an outside passerby, every click of your headlamp radiates through the entire building. The air is dry and stagnant. Privacy is an illusion (even if you are lucky enough to have a room with plywood walls). People tromp through the hallway at all times of night and day. In order to pee in the middle of the night, you have to brave a -70 F wind-chill on your short hike to the ice palace (the name of the summer camp bathroom). Walking barefoot in your room is a mistake you make only once. So is turning the knobs of the outside doors with bare hands.

On the surface, my living situation isn’t cozy. Over the years, however, inhabitants have made this temporary housing into a home. Walls, desks, and shelves have been patched together out of spare plywood. Windows have been cut into the canvas. Art has been sketched onto any and every workable surface.

When you move into a Jamesway, you move into a piece of the life of its last inhabitant. Maybe they left you flannel sheets or a bottle of Jack Daniels as a welcome present. Maybe they painted a mural into the wall. Maybe they sewed a curtain out of used clothing to cover the gross, dark green canvassed walls. In most cases, the previous tenant went to great length to make improvements, functional or aesthetic.

Living in summer camp is like house-sitting, only the owners are a constant string of transients, and every house-sitter tries to leave the room a little bit nicer than they found it. It’s actually very homey!

Of course, I’m romanticizing the experience. But I like it here. It sure beats having roommates. It sure beats a tent. My room has character, and I have collected endless amounts of decorations and knick-knacks (left behind by the thousands of people that have lived and worked at the South Pole before me) to decorate my room and make it my own. I feel at home here.

een a week at the pole – here are some observations

The honeymoon was short and sweet

2009-06-23T16:49:00.000-07:00

My first day at the South Pole involved a wonderful bow to a wondrous place. My second day involved going to work. Below is an excerpt from the second letter I wrote to my grandmother, dated the 14th of November.
It’s been a week at the pole – here are some observations

"I’m working hard, and I’m working outside most of the day (temperatures have been ranging from -40 to -50 Fahrenheit with the wind-chills between -50 and -70 Fahrenheit). This sounds cold, and I was quite worried about the extreme conditions when I first arrived. But so far, it hasn’t been that bad. The wind has been pretty calm, which makes all the difference in the world. For instance, yesterday, the temperatures were in the negative 40’s, but the wind was only blowing at a few mph. Everyone was commenting what a nice day it was! If the wind isn’t blowing, it is not difficult to stay warm, even in extreme temperatures. And it only promises to get warmer as the summer season peaks.

More challenging than the cold has been the thin air. The South Pole station sits above nearly two vertical miles of snow compacted ice. Our altitude is approximately 9,200 feet, but there is less air pressure at the poles than at the equator, so it feels like we are working at approximately 11,500 feet. I can get winded by simply walking from point A to point B. So we take things slow and easy. People who have not adjusted to the altitude (which is most of us) have a signature saunter: slow, short, deliberate, and leisurely as we take large, quick, deep breaths. Some people have more trouble than others dealing with the thin atmosphere. Luckily, I have not had any major problems and have been able to dive into work. Little by little, my body is adjusting to the reduced air pressure. Little by little, I can push myself harder and harder.

My job is very physical and conditions can be extreme, but I am lucky enough to have adjusted well. My body has responded well. I am feeling well, loving my job and co-workers, adjusting smoothly to novel conditions, and having a great time. I am very glad to be here. I can honestly say; all is well!"

By the end of the season, my relationship to the climate had changed a bit,

January 26, 2009

Our brief “summer” is over, and the cold has become inescapable. It’s a sneaky, dry cold. You can be working, feeling fine, and suddenly notice, that your body temperature has dropped, and it takes all day to warm up again. It’s a deep cold; a cold that you feel in the depths your body, through and through; a cold that saps your resources; a cold that makes you stupid and tired. It’s really something else . . . and I love it. Everything becomes a challenge – walking to the bathroom, unscrewing a bolt, opening a door, even thinking clearly (as if I didn’t already have that problem!). But I enjoy it, the challenge of it, and the novelty of it. Even on the coldest days, I muster a laugh and a deep, warm smile, at the opportunity I have here, at the outrageousness of what I’m doing and where I am . . .

So you get it - its cold, "Of course it's cold, stupid", you may have muttered to yourself. I'll get on with it. My job was simple: move things around all day - by hand, by shovel, by snowmobile, by heavy equipment. I received, I delivered. It was a simple job, made complicated by the wind & cold and bureaucracy & air national guard shipping regulations.

Pictured are all the people in the umbrella 'cargo' department - i.e. people who move stuff

And the stuff we move . . .

And the stuff we move it with . . .

Downloading fuel from the aircraft . . .

The 'Cargo' Office (Check out the cutie in the left background)

Surf's Up!

The South Pole

2009-06-23T16:28:00.000-07:00

So, I suppose you are all expecting a description of the South Pole. Well, technically, I don't have one. I am stationed 9,300 feet above the geographic South Pole, atop an unimaginably massive and ancient ice flow.
These were my first impressions, as I related to my Grandmother in my first letter,

"Dear Grandma,I landed at the South Pole Station mid-afternoon (New Zealand Time) on the 7^th of November. The temperature was -40 degrees Fahrenheit and the wind-chill dropped that number down to -60 F. Massive columns of frosty air plumed from the planes, machines, and buildings of the station, adding whiteness to the blue sky, adding whiteness to the already white continent. I was struck by all the tiny, pathetic, patchwork buildings, working to stand upright in the face of the cold, wind, and ice. I was struck by the tiny figures, tromping through the snow, covered from head to toe in cotton, wool and fleece, standing upright, working and walking with conviction in the face of the cold, wind, and ice.

This is a grand place, in a grand environment. Out of instinct, my eyes scan the horizon for penguins. Soon I will learn that there is no life here. There is only the horizon, where the blue meets the white. And it is this nothingness that transfixes people; it is this nothingness that people stare at as they work and eat; it is this nothingness that feels like home to so many people." Dear Grandma,

A Return to Arms

2009-06-23T16:11:00.000-07:00

It's going to come at you late, and its going to come at you fast. I feel like the paper is a week and a half late, and all of you are my patient teachers. I guess I owe you an apple . . .
But don't eat it all at once; savor the flavor of the South Pole, New Zealand, Tonga, Sydney, and Lake Michigan. There may not be anything interesting for a while . . . save Brooklyn and the West Antarctic Ice Sheet.

To the South Pole

2008-12-03T06:23:00.000-08:00

Alright Folks,
I finally managed to find some time in my busy sleep schedule to post some pictures. Interent access here, depending upon a couple factors (uasge and satellite availability), can actually be decently fast, so I do not really have any axcuses for not keeping y'all updated. But enough fancy words, here are pics from the flight to the Amundson-Scott Station over the Trans-Antarctic Mountain Range.

Aboard the LC-130 'Hercules' military aricraft, operated by the Air National Guard.

Home Sweet Home

2008-11-12T14:50:00.000-08:00

It’s been a week at the pole – here are some observations.
I live in a tiny room in a Jamesway, among 100 other people living in a cluster of Jamesways affectionately referred to as ‘Summer Camp’. A Jamesway is quonset hut, essentially a large semi-cylinder, wooden framed, canvas tent. The floors and walls are freezing, (don’t leave your pee bottle on the ground at night!), but the inside is heated. Rooms in the Jamesways consist of three canvas curtains and the canvas wall draping the metal frame. The lone piece of furniture is a smooshy bed. The structure is divided into half by a dark, red-light lit hallway that runs the length of the structure and leads to doors at either end. Due to shift variability, quiet hours are 24-7. Every creak of the bed, every squishy footstep of an outside passerby, every click of your headlamp radiates through the entire building. The air is dry and stagnant. Privacy is an illusion (even if you are lucky enough to have a room with plywood walls). People tromp through the hallway at all times of night and day. In order to pee in the middle of the night, you have to brave -70 wind-chill on your short hike to the ice palace (the name of the summer camp bathroom). Walking barefoot in your room is a mistake you make only once. So is turning the knobs of the outside doors with bare hands.
On the surface, my living situation isn’t cozy. Over the years, however, inhabitants have made this temporary housing into a home. Walls, desks, and shelves have been patched together out of spare plywood. Windows have been cut into the canvas. Art has been sketched onto any and every workable surface.
When you move into a Jamesway, you move into a piece of the life of its last inhabitant. Maybe they left you flannel sheets or a bottle of Jack Daniels as a welcome present. Maybe they painted a mural into the wall. Maybe they sewed a curtain out of used clothing to cover the depressingly dark green canvassed walls. In most cases, the previous tenant went to great length to make improvements, functional or aesthetic.
Living in summer camp is like house-sitting, only the owners are a constant string of transients, and every house-sitter tries to leave the room a little bit nicer than they found it. Its actually very homey!
Of course, I’m romanticizing the experience. But I like it here. It sure beats having roommates. It sure beats a tent. My room has character, and I have collected endless amounts of decorations and knick-knacks left behind by the thousands of people that have lived and worked at the South Pole before me. I feel at home here.

Goodbye, McMurdo

2008-11-05T10:44:00.000-08:00

In a McMurdo daze, I had lost hope that this day would ever arrive.
But it is here. Today I fly to the South Pole.
Woo-Hoo!

With Goosebumps on my arms and Tears in the corner of my eye . . .

2008-11-05T10:35:00.000-08:00

. . . we watched the next president elect deliver his victory speech. We glared wide-eyed, teary-eyed, at the tiny, fuzzy television screen. I will always remember where I was, who I was with, and the feeling, the until now so distant feeling, of hope, when Barack Obama was elected the first non-white president of the United States.
Even here, on the bottom of the Earth, ten thousand miles from home, the momentousness of the occassion, the sense of history, of novelty, surged through our bodies like an electrical charge.
This is a Moment.

Evan's On-Ice Address

2008-10-28T21:48:00.000-07:00

Here's my Mailing Address:

Evan Brost, RPSC
South Pole Station
PSC 468 Box 400
APO AP 96598

As in past years, US Post Office Domestic Shipping rates apply. Send X-mas presents by Halloween! This address is good through early February.

Where the Ice meets the Ice

2008-10-26T15:55:00.000-07:00

On our way back from Cape Evan's, our group had the EXTREME pleasure of touring some ice caves in the tip of the Erebus Ice Tongue. The Erebus Ice Tongue is a glacier that flows, at a rate of one foot/day, down the slopes of Mt. Erebus and bulges and carves its way into the semi-permanent Sea Ice of the Ross Sea.

Occasionally, ice caves form at the tip of this glacier, where the ice flow meets the frozen sea. And once in a great blue moon, these caves are deemed stable by FSTOP (Field Safety and Training Operations) and opened up for recreational tours. This is a rare opportunity and I feel incredibly lucky to have toured the caves. I only wish the pictures could do it justice!

This captures where the glacier meets the Sea Ice

Here is the entrance to the Caves

Below are some pics of the formations of snow that builds up on the glacier face

This is sea ice, covered in snow, and cracking and bulging under the weight of the glacier

The entrance to the caves is a slide that leads to another world

Inside the caves

Here I am leaning against the face of the Erebus Ice Tongue

Cape Evan's

2008-10-26T15:43:00.000-07:00

I took a trip out to Cape Evan's yesterday. Cape Evan's, located on the shores of Ross Island, north of McMurdo (which lies on the southern tip of the island) is named such after the first mate on Scott's expedition. An historic hut is situated here, and when you enter, it is as if you walked 90 years into the past. Due to low temps and low humidity, the hut is perfectly preserved: dead penguins, seal blubber, Heinz ketchup and all.

Icebergs float into the Ross Sea in summer and get frozen into the ice shelf in winter.

This is me below Mt. Erebus, the geologic structure that defines and towers over Ross Island

This is a Delta, our means of transportation over the sea ice.

Then and Now

2008-10-26T14:28:00.000-07:00

I got a hold of some pics of McMurdo in the old days. These photos are all dated in 1957, when McMurdo was being developed by the Navy. I have uploaded the pictures that fit best into the "Then and Now" theme of this posting, but I have many more (over 250 total). So if you're interested (and you should be, they are outrageously cool), send me an email and I will try to get them on Flickr!

You'll see that in some ways, this place has changed dramatically. In other ways, it hasn't changed at all.

Ungainfully Employed, Part Deux

2008-10-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

That's right, Part Deux. I could have written 'Part 2', but I decided use 'Deux' for a couple of reasons.
1) 'Deux' has three more characters than '2' and thus required more time to type. As I am ungainfully employed, anything to pass the time is a plus.
2) I had to look the word 'Deux' up in the French Dictionary to ensure I was speeling it right (no, that's not a joke . . . I actually spelled the word 'spelling' wrong) This is a bonus for the same reason as stated above.
3) Remember, "it takes deux, baby, me and you".

Yes, your old friend, chubalicious, continues to be ungainfully employed.
But there is good news!
The first two Baslar flights have left for the South Pole. That means that a good 35 summer contractors have begun the process of opening station for the main body season.

I am currently scheduled on the 6th Baslar flight - but I am not keeping my hopes up for a Baslar ride to the South Pole. My flight schedule has been switched four times already, and I expect that uncertainty will continue. Currently, my estimated departure date is officially listed as 'TBD'. The most likely scenario is that poor weather will continue to incur flight delays, and that the vast majority of us Poley's will fly south on the LC-130 sometime in early November.

I continue to go with the flow. FYI - "Go with the Flow" can be translated as "Enjoying my paid vacation in Antarctica".

Other than that, I have very little to report. My days are dominated by flight schedules, meetings, training sessions, volunteer work in the Galley, and, as always, dance parties.

Weather has been FANTASTIC. Mostly clear skies, temps in the single digits - perfect flying weather. We'll see if that holds - wishful thinking.

Things are well, my lovers are well. McMurdo is wonderful, and I'm glad NOT be working here this season. I do not think I could handle another season - the intensity of the people and the work and the living quarters grinds a sane man into the ground. I suppose that is why people who are a little 'off' tend to congregate here.

Despite the fact that I am quite content to never work McMurdo again, I continue to be thrilled to be 'on continent' and outrageously excited to be going to the South Pole. I fully expect to be blown away and to have the time of my life! I get the seaking suspicion that smaller communities will become the rule of thumb for me in the future.

Here are some random pics. Below, from top to bottom, is Scott Base (the kiwi Base); Castle Rock nestled below the ever-churning Mt. Erebus; and some 'Happy Campers' being dropped off for a night 'on the ice'.

Glad to be here

2008-10-21T13:10:00.000-07:00

Plane schedules continue to shift.

The Basler is currently hopping across the continent from South America.
We hope for its arrival in McMurdo tomorrow, and for flights to the Amundsen - Scott South Pole Station to begin the following day, on Friday the 24th of October.

We're crossing our fingers, but we know better . . .

. . . so for the time being, we are simply glad to be here

Ungainfully employed

2008-10-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

We are all here.
We are all ready.
The temperature at Pole is -56F, warm enough to fly Basler's and nearly warm enough to fly the LC-130's (Herc's).
Flights are scheduled this week.
Only one glitch - no planes.
In years past, weather conditions have delayed the opening of the South Pole Station by weeks.
As a result, it appears as though the the Program was in no rush to bring the planes in that fly the inter-continental missions. The Basler is still in South America and god knows where the Herc's are.
As the weather has warmed though, this is becoming a problem.
Inevitably, the rule of thumb here is that if one thing goes right, another must go wrong.
I am now scheduled to fly on the 29th on a Basler - I am not holding my breath. I am planning to celebrate Halloween at McMurdo for the 3rd consecutive year.

It sure doesn't suck to be me . . . I remind myself

2008-10-15T21:37:00.000-07:00

Quick Update, Friends!

Originally, I was scheduled on a Basler flight on the 29th of October.
Now the Basler flights have been pushed back, and I've been switched to an LC-130 (Hercules) flight on the 4th of November.
Stay tuned, I guarantee this will change six or seven more times in the next six or seven days. Bureaucrats are frantically organizing, inputting, and color-coding schedules that will inevitably change by the time they print them out.
You learn to 'be flexible' - corporate virtue #1.

The temperature today at South Pole was -69 F.
We will not fly until the temperature warms to -50F.
Until then, I will remain in McMurdo, laboring to say busy, but effectively unemployed, for at least two more weeks.
We are all itching to go south, but I am trying to keep in mind, that there are certainly worse places to be stranded and well-paid.

Spinning

2008-10-13T18:42:00.000-07:00

I've returned to McMurdo.

These are some sweet pics form the plane ride.

The temperature upon arrival to McMurdo was a balmy 17 below, with bright sun, clear, open vistas, and minimal wind. I am instantaneously reminded of that feeling that incessantly and mysteriously draws me back, that feeling that I cannot quite pin down, that sense of adventure, escape, beauty, that sense of the bizarre and surreal, that sense that you are now completely removed from the ordinary.
And yet, one day into my stay at McMurdo, I am reminded of just how rote, boring, and absolutely ordinary this place can be.
It seems we search for something here that is elusive: this place, that is so foreign to human survival, feels so familiar.
McMurdo Station is an unending series of hyprocies and contradictions.
And we all seem to Love it . . . and Hate it.

My head is spinning. Retention rate for employees was 77% this year - unusually high. As a result, I find myself afloat in friends, many of whom I had no expectation of ever seeing again. Its been a whirlwind reunion over the last 24 hours.
Basically, I am overwhelmed; pulled outside of myself by a week of flights, bus rides, talking heads, drinking, new friends, and old lovers. Its been a lot, and it can spiral you out of control, if you don't keep a clear head.

But its all good in the McNeighborhood. I will spend two weeks here, training and screwing around. On October 29th, I am scheduled to fly to Pole. My excitement is growing.

Ferocious Lovers

2008-10-11T14:40:00.000-07:00

I departed Milwaukee at 10:40 am on Tuesday, the 7th of October, 2008, to a tearful mother. I spent two weeks counting down the days to the deployment, but my last day in Wisconsin was marked not by anticipation, but the sorrow of leaving home. My excitement for my third season on the ice is matched in ferocity only by the sadness of leaving my family. I arrived in Denver via Dallas-Fort Worth in the late afternoon and was shuttled to my hotel. I was greeted at the Staybridge Inn and Suites by an open bar and my distant, but ferocious lovers from my first year on the ice, Isaac Bean and Rachel Edie, whom had driven down from Boulder to see me. These two were later named 'my parentheses', as they remained tight on each side of me for the remainder of the night. We ripped into the open bar and then mosied downtown in search of boos and music. We succeeded fabulously on both accounts - we sucked down a Bathtub Margarita at a jazz club in Downtown Denver.

A half an hour into communal bathtub of boos, we realized that despite our best best efforts, we were not making a dent in the volume of our Margarita. So we redoubled our efforts and another half hour later, found ourselves on the dance floor. We managed to embarrass ourselves just enough to receive a larger applause from the audience than the musicians themselves. The night got foggy from there, with middle eastern cuisine and hookahs.

We crashed late in the hotel room, only to wake three hours later for a chem lab and a full day of Human Resources Orientation, respectively. It was not going to be a good day.
After orientation, I napped from 3:30 pm until after 11pm. I would not be able to sleep the rest of the night. I guess I began my transition to NZ time a little early.
That next day, we completed orientation (safety training - yeah!) and boarded a bus for Denver International Airport. That commenced the beginning of two bus rides, three flights, and 36 hours of travel.
I arrived in CHC at 11am on the morning of Saturday, the 11th of October. It was in the am, NZ time, but I hadn't seen a bed for 48 hours.
Nevertheless, I was light and bouncy: the effects of being in NZ. The sun shining, a new adventure beginning, and I was in my favorite country on Earth with many of my favorite people on Earth!
Well, ladi-da, Evan, why don't you just give yourself a gold-star.

Not Last

2008-09-28T07:42:00.000-07:00

A couple months ago, my lovely cousin Marie invited me to to join her and her father (my jovial Uncle Bob) on a bike ride in Madison. The event is called "Bike the Barns" and is a fundraiser for CSA's or Community Supported Agriculture in the Madison area. The ride was 63 miles (with an optional 14 mile extra loop) and wound through rolling farmland south of Madison.

Here is Marie packing up the car. I took this picture at 7am, approximately three hours after going to bed the night before. It was going to prove to be a very long day . . .

The following pics were snapped early in the race, when we were still able to force our facial muscles to curve in an upward direction . . .

Along the 63 mile route, there were designed stops at three different farms. Here the riders took breaks, talked to the farmer, filled up on water, read inspirational messages in the toilets, sampled the local food (homemade and locally grown bruschetta, granola, ice cream, cookies, etc . . .). At one farm, we picked fresh raspberries!

We may not have had the fanciest bikes, we not have been the fastest riders, but we made damn sure that we were not only the best looking bikers, but also the most stylish.

At one point during the ride, we commented on the strong tailwind we had that day. Later we realized that the "woosh" sounds coming from behind us was not a tailwind, but rather the force of every single biker passing us at breakneck speeds. An hour into the race, however, we did manage to pass our first rider . . . they were broken down on the side of the road (and later passed us once again).

The ride went smoothly for about the first 55 miles or so. After that point, Marie's butt began to ache, Bob's knees began to creek, and my hangover kicked in to high gear. Its a good thing that most everyone had already passed us at this point, as our whining reached screeching magnitudes. We dragged the last ten miles and reached the finish line around 4:30 pm. Behind us, way off in the distance, we noticed a stray biker that still had not finished the race. We turned to each other, exchanged high fives, and exclaimed, "Not Last". That pretty much sums up our day, "Not Last".

Despite a strong desire for some 'nappers' after the race, we all showered and got ready for dinner at Rick and Mary k's house in Cottage Grove.

We arrived around 7pm: the kids were leading the busy lives of teenagers, Mary K was cooking tirelessly, and my aunt Barb was deep into her first bottle of wine.

Dinner was absolutely fabulous (big ups to our wonderful hosts): fancy salad, tender beef, quinoa, fresh tomoatoes with mozzarela, and LOTS of garlic sauce. Dinner conversation was cordial, and centered mostly around buying pagan babies. After Barb licked clean every bottle of wine in the house, she moved on to the chocolate hazelnut liquers. At this point, Barb started asking questions about the logistics of sex at the south pole and wondered aloud about my status as a heterosexual.

Several painful mintues later, Marie and I managed to escape to the car. We may have finished nearly last in the bike ride today, but we were first up from the dinner table.

Ice Castle

2008-09-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

Well, I was PQ'd (physically qualified) yesterday, which means that the Raytheon Corporation has decided that I am unlikely to incur any medical costs for them while I am one the ice. SO, looks like I am going for the trifecta - three straight summer seasons on the ice. Excited for me? I am!
My first two seasons were spent in McMurdo station, washing dishes in '06 and working cargo in '07. This year, I will be working cargo again, but at a different location, the South Pole station. The South Pole Station is built on top of a 2 mile thick ice sheet. The elevation is over 10.000 feet, humidity is nearly 0%. Conditions will be more severe (temps in the - 50's F) and the location more isolated. There will be less people and, hopefully better food. More fun facts to come later . . .
I leave at the end of Septemeber.
Let the adventure begin!

Alex and Lucas, I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!

2008-09-12T09:39:00.000-07:00

2 days at home, being proked and prodded, in order to PQ (physically qualify) for a precedented thrid season on the ice. Then I was off again, for a short trip to Chicago via the train, to visit aunty and unky John and Sue.
We had a wonderful evening: watching his holiness Barack Obama, sampling exquisite pizza, wine, and authentic Italian pastry, and discussing the jarring loss of his ex-holiness, Brett Favre.
After nine months detatched from the political news gravy train, I was sucked immediately back in, willingly and happily, to the FOX and MSNBC presidential circus. Barack was eloquent and strong: we are still in Love. I Heart you forever, Obama.
A million billion thanx for an absolutely lovely evening, John and Sue. All the things I missed most dearly, you treated me to in the finest fashion. I will remember this evening with great fondness for some time now - my sincere graditude to you . . .

I thoroughly enjoyed my short time in Chicago - my prejudices about 'the city' and gave way to a place of culture, awe, and beauty. Chicago certainly rquires more exploration . . .

After too short a time in the city, I bummed a ride to Burkettsville, Ohio for the wedding of my two Ice lovers, Alex and Lucas. Rarely do you find people so sweet, and so ideal for one another. The wedding was kick-ass: a heartfelt ceremony, though that whole communion thing did drag on a bit . . .

The resception was held in a park across the street from the Church. The food was primarily purchased from the Amish auction - all orgain, all good. As if that wasn't enough, there was an open bar and a grass dance floor. I was in heaven. Big Ups to Alex and Lucas for planning a PERFECT wedding. The laid back atmosphere allowed everyone to have good time, let loose. Especially this girl, pictured below, who hoola-hooped for five hours straight.

The first dance . . .

You may watch 'Dancing with the Stars,' but I guarantee you that you ain't seen nothing yet. Lucas is my mad dancing hero - save a dance for me in McMurdo, Lucas . . .

If I ever get married, I will make only one request of my bride: Please, please, for the Love of God, do not play "the Electric Slide" at the wedding. It hurts the eyes.

In Ohio, corn is big, and ice cream is bigger . . .

Welcome Home, Nation

2008-09-12T09:15:00.000-07:00

Chicken bus's passing at breakneck speeds on mountain passes; 7 hour wait in the Guatemala City Airport; greedy taxi drivers; 2am drive through Beloit, WI; and my nemesis - the Badger Bus - That about sums up my trip back to the states.
But, bigger picture - I am home and healthy; Sade (the artist formaerly known as Chocobanano) is home and healthy; Taryn and I had a wonderful ten weeks together. All is well.

I am glad to be home . . .

Stats

1 month in good 'ol WI, hanging with the fam
157 lbs . . . yikes, time for some good 'ol mommy food
104/62 BP
1 more season on the ice, just one more, really, I am not addicted, I promise, kinda, sorta
10-6 predicted record for the Green Bay Packers, led by the always stylish Aaron Rodgers
5 gallons of a Texas style Brown Ale: the first task on my to do list
26 years old! Oh my God, boy, time to get serious . . . wait, about what?
14 months - age of my princess, goddess, diva, lover Elladia

Goodbye, Guate

2008-09-11T21:56:00.000-07:00

My last week in Guatemala I returned to San Juan, volunteering for the fire department and living with the family that Taryn lived with, the family Cholotio Hernandez.

The father, Lallo, works two small plots of land. One he is selling, as his daughter became ill with appendicitis last year, and needless to say, health care in Guatemala is not exactly socialized. Lallo also works part time in a carpenteria. His main duties, however, are with the church. He volunteers as the accountant, which is nearly a full-time job. Can you imagine, being the primary breadwinner for your impoverished family of five children, and still finding the time to volunteer full time for the church? Lallo's story is not uncommon in San Juan - the firefighters are volunteers as well, five days a week, 10 hours a day. Maybe if there were work to be had in San Juan, people would be less generous of their time . . .

Lallo's wife, Maria, stays at home, preparing three meals a day, and rolling enough tortillas to feed an elephant. Two daughters are secretaries and another works as a manager for a weaving group. The youngest, the only boy of five children, Gaspar, is fifteen and still in school.

My last week I spent my days volunteering with the firefighters, helping to construct their new firehouse. It was mindless contruction work in blistering heat, but I enjoyed it. I lived and ate my meals with familia Cholotio Hernandez that week. I grew to understand how Taryn fell in love with her family - I looked forward to 'coming home; to my family everyday, talking about my day, telling jokes. I felt at home with them. Even still, I am ready for home. I am so glad to have spent my last week here in San Juan, I am also glad to be going back to the states. Homesickness has crept in. A graditude for my family has crept in as well, and a desire spend some time with them, to thank them.

I do not have pics of familia Cholotio Hernandez yet - but I will upload some soon. Below are pics of our neighbors in San Juan. I was joined at the hip with these kids for five weeks.

As I look back at some of my blog entries over the past month, I realize that I have often written with acidity. In the moment, few of my experiences in Guatemala were tinged with such negativity. Yet in retrospect, that is the way I feel. I have no regret in returning home, and little desire to return to Central America, despite the connections I made. The country is beautiful, the people are colorful and kind, everything was new and exciting and challenging, the land is a paradise. But it is a third world country, and the poverty is glaring and unnerving. Of all the countries that I have visited, this is the first that I can definitively say that I would not want to live in. I felt guilty, I felt unsafe, I felt like a spectacle, I felt unsure. Mostly, I felt guilty. I think that is why I quit after ten weeks, why I was eager to return home.

The task, thus, as I bid adieu to Guatemala, is to find a way to convert the energy of that guilt into something positive. Will you, my friends and lovers, hold my lazy ass to that task?

San Marcos La Laguna

2008-09-11T15:33:00.000-07:00

After a week in Xela, we returned to Lago de Atitlan, just 8 km downshore from San Juan in the small, new age, hippy town of San Marcos La Laguna. San Marcos is a mix bag of old hippies who have settled here, new age spiritualists, healers, yoga teachers, massage therapists, hypnotists, and artists. If you want to learn massage or reiki or stain glass or yoga, this is a great, inexpensive place to do so. There is a gringo section of town, and a moreno section of town. The only reason the two sections interact is commerce. The segregation is glaring, and the hostility palpable. I do not know how it got to be this way, but it is unnerving and puzzling. You would think that a community dedicated to the healing arts would have found a more ameable way to coexist with the locals, but they have not. That said, it is a beautiful, expressive, open, and uplifting community - I was fortunate to be a part of it for a brief time . . .

We spent a month here at "Las Pyramides," attending a yoga and meditation retreat. Our days started with Hatha yoga at 7am. At 10am, we attended a class on subjects varying from metaphysics, to lucid dreaming, to the 7 shakras and 7 corresponding dimensions, to the tree of life, to the emerald table, to astrology, to the kybalion, etc. We sat for meditation at 5pm each day. This schedule remained consistent throughout the entire month. The afternoons were ours, to cook or swim or take a massage or music class. The couse followed the lunar calender, so we started on the new moon and the course culminated on the full moon. The last week, we entered silence and fasted. I modified my fast after the first three days to include raw fruit and veggies, due to weakness and lightheadedness.

This picture was taken before the full moon ceremony, on the last night of the retreat. As you can see, we were required to wear all white for the final ritual.

This is what I took away from the course.

1) Knowledge, as a concept, evolved from something that is 'black and white' to something that is 'fluid and utilitarian'.
San Marcos is more than a little bit woo-woo, and so was this retreat: astral traveling, the tarot, the shakras, astrology are all part of this course, and are all things that I met with skepticism. But I nevertheless listened to the practitioners of these mystic practices, and worked to remain open. I learned that these practices are not as 'woo woo' as I thought, and I learned that skepticism is not always a useful disposition.
We spend 20 years in schools, and the constant, enduring lesson from our instructors is this: memorize and believe and have faith in what I am telling you, and disbelieve everything else - there is no value to what you cannot quantitatively measure. This is the faith we place in science. Science has been perverted into a new religion. Many of these 'mystic practices,' on the other hand, require no such blind faith. Rather, they require strong intention, effort, introspection, deep thought, self-awareness, self-knowledge. The 'answers' of the mystic have value only if they are discovered empirically on your owm, through direct personal experience. These answers may not be quantifiable or verfiable, but they are most certainly as useful as the pythagorean theory, for instance. In fact, the evolution of our ability to interpret these mystical experiences may coincide directly with our ability to interpret the pythagorean theorem. Well, I threw one way out there - anyone hungry, anyone biting?
Faith in science has brought us the cure for polio and the washing machine; it has also brought us weapons grade anthrax and the cluster bomb. Faith in religion has brought us the golden rule; it has also brought suicide bombings.

The way one approaches science can be more 'woo-woo' than the way one approaches the Kabbalah, for instance. An unwise, unbalanced, and blind faith in science brought us the atom bomb. There is nothing in this world more 'woo-woo' than the atom bomb. It is hard to believe that an unwise, unbalanced, and blind faith in the Kabbalah could bring us anything as awful as the atom bomb. So who is more woo-woo: Robert Oppenheimer or John Lennon?

So next time you look at a hippy and discount and dismiss him for being 'woo-woo', ask yourself a few questions:
"How has a blind faith in my 'rational' mind served me/ the world?"
"Are there belief structures that operate outside the realm of science that may serve me?"
"Why is it so important for me to discount mystical experience?"
Well, sorry for preaching there - I kind of got lost in that one. All I set out to say was this: many mystical practices have strong utilitarian value. Bam. Done.

2) I was reaffirmed in the value of self-awareness, of meditation and breathing practices. Every day since the retreat, I have noticed a structure or underpinning of my suffering that I would otherwise have been inaware of: whether it is a deep, hidden fear, or a mental delusion, or a negative physical habit. I was reaffirmed in the mantra of 'know thyself'.

3) The knowledge that I need more vitality in my life; the knowledge that I have the potential to create more vitality in my life.

4) Graditude, intense graditude, for my family.

5) The distinct and verifiable ability of humans to evolve . . . and the hope that that truth breeds.

6) Spirituality - its right fucking there.

7) The encompassing power of doubt

8) My monster is my guide

9) There is a distinct, verifiable, cross-cultural mental state or worldspace that is created by performing such rituals as yoga, meditation, and cleansing practicies in a quiet, relaxed environment. This worldspace is light, positive, hopeful, strong. It is a worry free state that has the taste of rising. A constant smile molds the face. A sense of joy, and a sense of awe at being in the world arises from within. Its a spiral upwards. There is no better state of being, for the self, for the world.

Below are the moonset/ sunrise after the final day of the course.

El Autobus de Pollo

2008-09-11T13:07:00.000-07:00

The primary, and most often only, means of transportation in Guatemala is via what gringo's call a "chicken bus". The exact etymology of this slang is unknown to this traveller, but I can tell you that the term is most definitely apt.

According to lonely planet, after school bus's are decommisioned in the states, they are driven down to Mexico, where they are 'tricked out' - custom paint job, removal of safety devices. After that, the chicken bus makes its way to Guatemala, where it becomes the beating heart of the transportation industry

The paint jobs are often intricate and are almost always centered around "el senor," por que solo Jesus puedo cambiar tu vida! If you are lucky, seating is three to a seat, as in the picture below. If you are unlucky, a 225 pound lady is sitting in your lap, elbowing you in the neck, breastfeeding 6 inches from your face, and actively fighting you for your seat while the bus creaks, moans, and jolts through the mountain pass. My back is not the same after a five hour ride from Xela to Guatemala city.

A streetdog named nunchuck, part deux . . .

2008-09-11T11:24:00.000-07:00

Chocobanano travels to the big city!
Yep, our little puppers is now better traveled than most Guatemalans! The irony is depresing.
Every day, little 'cafe con leche' is getting more healty, more lively, less scruffy, and more plump. Taryn has worked tirelessly to nurse 'Luna' back to health.
Bringing 'sofia' back to the States is not as hard as you might think - vaccinations, a clean bill of health from a US embassy approved vet, a small fee to the US embassy, and 'Xela' is a US citizen! Of course, nothing in Guatemala is as easy as it sounds, but even still, the process has been surprisingly smooth and straightforward!

Thw first thing Taryn and I did in Xela was take 'Chaco' to the vet. The dx, to Taryn's sincere and heartfelt relief, included all curable ailemts - respitory infection, skin fungus, and intestinal worms. We had previously suspected she had worms, since very time she ate, her stomach bloated to the size of a melon, impeding her ability to walk.

Nurse Taryn, happily caring for her sick little puppy.

Xela and Around

2008-07-26T14:34:00.000-07:00

After five weeks in San Juan La Laguna and four weeks of Spanish lessons under our belt, Taryn and I jetted for Quetzaltenango, or Xela (pronounced 'shela') for short.

It was especially difficult for Taryn to say goodbye, as she had snuggled in warmly with her family, but we were both ready to go . . .

Xela is Guatemala's second largest city, but you wouldn't guess that from walking around: very few buildings higher than two stories, cost of living is very low, traffic is considerate, people are considerate. It is a nice town, very relaxed, with cobblestone road and plastered homes. Gringo's abound here, but they tend to blend into the larger fabric of the city. In the other places I've visited, gringo's are a SPECTACLE, and you feel like a spectacle as people whisper and stare and giggle around every corner. Here, us whitey's are accepted, and even respected, for the funds and service work that we provide Xela. Its easy here, and feels like a distinct world from the rest of the country. There is culture here, and commuter cars, and consumer commodities . . . and even more novel to Guatemala - good food!

Taryn and I had a blast here - gorging ourselves on street food, pizza, Indian food, and Mango Lassi's, watching the Latin American Idol, walking the dog, and taking day trips to local markets. Generally, we planned our days around where we were going to get a cup of good coffee and a tasty meal. But we definitely did splurge - instead of spending our usual $15 / day, as we did in San Juan, we approached $25 / day in Xela. Yep, we really broke the bank. At this rate, I am going to be broke some time in the year 2012.

I rented a bike to take a day trip to the nearby town of Zunil. After an hour of climbing switchbacks, I remembered that the guy who rented me the bike told me that there weren't any serious hills between Xela and Zunil. I asked a passerby and realized that I had committed some serious navigational errors. But I pushed on, as I was informed by the same passerby that I was "soon in for some great views". I have come to learn that the word 'soon' is relative term on the push bike. Another hour and I reached the top of the the hill and snapped these photos for y'all - I hope it was worth it!

As with many Guatemalan city's, Xela is vast, disguisting, disorganized, dirty sprawl of concrete.

These pics are from the nearby town of Zunil, once I finally made it there . . .

These are some pics of Zone 1 (the tourist section) of Quetzaltenango

San Francisco el Alto is home to the largest market in all of Guatemala (not Chichicastenango), and possibly all of the central Americal (but do not quote me on that). The pinnacle of this market (literally and figuratively - the market is sprawled out over a hill) is the animal market. People hawking goats, used clothing, pigs, clothes hangers, sheep, nail clippers, puppies, weavings, and roosters spread over a dusty, baking wasteland, trying to sell you hair products and sick, depressed, emaciated animals. Despite the nausea, I stopped to ask the price of an eight week old puppy - $3. On my way out, I nearly stepped in a stream of rasberry juice. I looked up to find the fruit stand to buy a smoothie. All I saw was a swine, bleeding from it's anus. I am not a vegetarian, but I have no excuse.

A street dog named nunchuck

2008-07-14T09:38:00.000-07:00

The saga continues . . .

As you all know, Taryn found a puppy on the street in San Juan. Two days later, Taryn decided that she was not going to be able to part with it. One day after that, the puppy had a collar and leash, a veterinary appointment, and a reservation with Taca airlines.

Chocobanano is going to fulfill every guatemalan´s dream - US citizenship.

The puppy does not have a name yet: chocobanano is out of the running. Still in contention are Luna, Xela, sofia, and Chaco (spanish for nunchuck).

Votes or suggestions? We´re looking for a Spansish name, preferably.

Our last night in San Juan!

2008-07-14T09:29:00.000-07:00

Here we are celebrating over beers our last night in Xela. The gringos are me, Taryn, and two volunteers at Centro Maya. The Moreno´s are members of the family Taryn lived with.

This was my room in San Juan . . .

2008-07-14T09:24:00.000-07:00

I had more personal space than anyone else in the house. I had a lock on the door. My bed was newer and comfier than any other bed I encountred in San Juan. Most people share wooden beds with spouses or siblings that may or may not have a foam pad.

The creation of a new species of bird . . .

2008-07-14T09:20:00.000-07:00

This is my first painting.

I´m actually bubbling with pride, so keep your cyber laughter to yourself!

2008-07-14T09:18:00.000-07:00

Centro Maya is the school I´ve been checking out. Thinking about committing a good chunk of time there at the end of August. That means giving up the fall work trip and another season on the ice.

Centro Maya is a daycare \ school \ food program \ job placement \ physical therapy center for children and young adults around the Lago de Atitlan area.

Hit me on up my bling celly

2008-07-10T16:29:00.000-07:00

I've got a cell phone now. Kind of weird, to have a cell phone, but its too cheap here to not have one.
Here's my digits, babes: 00-502-42327734
'00' is for international calling, '502' is the country code, the rest is my number.

So Long, San Juan

2008-07-10T16:19:00.000-07:00

I had my last day of classes today. Its exciting, I guess. I'm digging San Juan, big time. I will miss the friends I've made here, I will miss the lifestyle, I will miss the spanish school, I will miss the school I´ve been working at.

But I've also got that heavy, empty feeling in my stomach that is only smothered by the freedom of the road. Time to Go!
I leave for Xela (Quetztalanango, but 'Xela' (pronounced 'Shela') for short) on Saturday morning.
Taryn and I have a week there to play, sounds like there is all kinds of eye candy in the areas surrounding Guatemala's second largest city.
More pics and updates to come soon, when I find an internet center with a speedy connection . . .

Puppy, anyone

2008-07-10T15:56:00.000-07:00

If there is one thing that Taryn's friends know about her, its that she NEVER wants kids. ''Kids are cute, so long as they are someone else's,'' is her motto.
Dogs on the other hand, is another story. Never have I seen a motherly instinct so intense, as I've seen in Taryn over the past few days . . .
On Tuesday night, Taryn found a stray puppy, starving, shivering, and helpless, in the street (apparently it was laying next to the other 650,000 starving, shivering, puppies in Guatemala). But it was love at first sight! By the next day, the puppy had a name (chocobanano), its only personal shampoo, blanket, food dish and specially designed puppy food. The only dog in Guatemala that sleeps inside is currently nestled in a designer skirt in a cornflakes box in Taryn's room.

But, I have to admit, Chocobanano is darned cute, and it has grown on us both as we cared for it over the past couple days. Taryn has even investigated the possibility of bringing the pup back to the states. But after a couple sleepless nights, the decision was made to leave Choco with a neighbor (pictured above) who has been dying for a dog . . .
Taryn and I worry though, as dogs are certainly not 'man's best friend' in Guatemala. In fact, kicking dogs is a favorite pastime of the children here . . .
But our teacher at the Spanish school, Erwyn, is an animal lover (rare as snow in Guatemala) and has agreed to look after Chocobanano!

Bad News

2008-07-03T14:39:00.000-07:00

Friends and Lovers,
German Marie has chosen her ex-boyfriend. Looks like we won´t be travelling together, as I had hoped.
I´m in the dumps . . .
´Asi es la Viva´!

2008-07-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

I visited the city of Chichicastenango this last weekenk. It is a town that can only be desribed in pictures.

San Juan La Laguna

2008-06-28T16:26:00.000-07:00

Friends and Lovers,
Big news guys . . .
For the first time in 18 years, I pooped my pants.
I woke up at approximately 12:30 in the morning with incredible discomfort in the abdominal region. I shot up and made for the bathroom. Not before, of course, slipping on my sandals. I would rather risk sharting myself than entering the dingy bathroom with unprotected feet. And that´s extactly what I did, before I even got out of my room . . .
Later that night, sweating in bed, my mind began to race. Do I have girradia? What if I have girradia? Stuck in Guatemala with Girrardia - ughh, what a nightmare! Shitting myself every night, wreching in bed as butcher knife pains twist through my gut, losing weight and sanity in some strange room, in some strange house, in some strange country that hasn´t adopted western medicine . . .
I thought to myself - what did I eat? Did I forget to wash my hands? Did I drink unpurified water by accident? I couldn´t put my finger on a culprit for my slippery bowels. So, I eventually slipped back into sleep.
This morning I woke up feeling fine. I even climbed into the mountains to help my ´grandfather´ weed his plot of beans. Tough work - half hour climb up the side of a volcano, simply to get to his plot. In the three hours that we weeded his plot, we managed to clean about 2 percent of his field. The entire time we worked, hunched over and standing on steep and unsteady ground. By 11:30, Augustine called it, as the clouds were building up. Climbing down the side of this muddy volcano in a downpour was definitely beyond my capabilities. I was glad our workday was cut short. I was thinking to myself the entire morning - how could this much work be worth a hump of beans . . .
We made it home, safe, sound, and exhausted just in time to be served fish for lunch!
So, lets back up. I´m sure you´re confused . . . I have been living in San Juan Laguna on the shores of Lake Atitlan, in the Guatemalan state of Solola, for just over two weeks now. This is a view of the towns of San Juan La Laguna (foreground) and Sen Pedro La Laguna (background).

I am studying spanish (3-5 hours day) and living with a family. The family houses and feeds me for 50 dollars per week. I study with a personal instructor, one on one, for 4 dollars hour. Taryn is here as well. We have the same teacher and live just down the block from one another.
Half the money I pay for lessons is pure gravy - it goes directly to a food program for the community´s needy. And there are many. There is little work here. Most familes can afford to send their children to school for only 4 or five years. Many children are less than 10 years old when they have receieved all the education they are going to get.

The menu for the majority of the residents of San Juan is eggs, beans, and tortilla´s, every meal of every day. Sunday, however, is special: chicken soup is on the menu. Meals normally consist a very small serving of food that is spread out over several tortillas. These truly are the people of the maize: a tomale spead out over a tortilla, washed downed with a corn drink, is a common meal.
Things are a bit different for me: my family is more well-to-do. We have meat or fish once a day. The menu is mixed up with tomato´s, broccolli, potatos, avocado, and other local vegetables. Avocado´s cost 15 cents here.
Guatemala is called the land of the eternal spring. The soil is volcanic and rich, and the growing season is 365 days per year. 100 percent of the food I eat is Guatemalan, and over 75 percent is from the lands surrounding San Juan.
The fact that I am a gringo, the fact that I am rich, is constantly present. In one sense, I am simply one human being trying to connect with another. On the other hand, there is little we can talk about that does not at least indirectly point out the fact that I am rich beyond their wildest dreams. The things I have, my perfect teeth, my tall, strong frame, my education, my freedom - especially my freedom. These are things many of the people of San Juan have never directly encountered. I´m developing a whole new definition of privilege, of wealth. I can leave, I can always leave. They never can. Privilege is choice and the tools of choice. Privilege is freedom. America isn´t free, its privileged. And we so often confuse the two.
Anyways, things are well. This is an awesome place. San Juan is a very traditional communty. Not a single woman wears jeans. Everyone wears the traditional clothing, despite the fact that is is very expensive. The community of 700 is 90 percent Catholic. Marriage outside the religion is very difficult.
The kids are so goddamn beautiful.
Guatemalans love Americans. A travelling rarity for an American, to be respected for your country of birth.
My spanish is going very well. The intensive immersion program yields very palpable results. Everyday, I make progress. But I am just beginning, and fluency is a long, long road. Good thing I´m rich enough to stay here a long time!
Sorry, no pictures yet. Internet here is too patchy to upload photos, but I´ll keep trying . . .
I´ll be lucky to even upload this post . . .

Antigua

2008-06-10T10:27:00.000-07:00

Taryn and I arrived in Guatemala City in the earl afternoon of Thursday, June 5, 2008. We took a shuttle into Antigua straight from the airport.
Antigua is a main tourist destination in Guatemala, and the first place that most travelers visit. It is an historic city and heavily regulated to maintain its beauty and appeal to tourists.
The streets are cobblestone and the buildings are old and well maintained. Streeet signs have been removed and sign advertising is prohibited to maintain its old world feel. And it certainly feels like no other town I´ve ever been to, with its color and plaster and 18th century architecture.

Taryn and I loved Antigua for a day . . . then the gringo´s and inflated prices ($8 hostel rooms, $4 meals) got to us. We ditched Antigua on Sunday and headed towards Lago de Atitlan in search of Spanish Schools . . .

Guatemala '08

2008-06-08T10:31:00.000-07:00

I've been home for six weeks now . . . six weeks to prepare for my trip to Guatemala. The time is 4am on the fourth of January. My ride to Chicago O´Hare is picking me up in twenty minutes. I have not yet packed. I have not purchased a guide book. I do not speak Spanish. I have not even looked at a map of Guatemala. I guess this one will have be by the seat of my pants . . .
John picks me up at 4:20 am and we hit the road in the darkness of the late morning. As we reach Racine county, traffic hits a wall. At a county road K, traffic in both directions, all six lanes, are directed to the frontage road. John and I ponder what could shut down I-94 at 5am in the morning. After 40 minutes of bumper to bumper traffic, we are allowed back on the freeway at highway 20. It begins to rain as we click on the radio. The windshield wipers aren't working and the radio states that I-94 is shut down due to the mysterious existence of a body in the middle of the freeway. We both look at each other . . . this is an ominous beginning to our day.

I arrive at Chicago O'hare and meet Taryn, my traveling companion for the next few months, at the US Airways check-in desk. Neither of us have slept. US Airways informs us that our flight is delayed and that we will miss our connection flight to Guatemala City. After a bit of running around, US Airways books us on a 6am flight out of O'Hare tomorrow morning and puts us up in a hotel for the night.
As we wait for the shuttle to our hotel, the both of us realize that we are completely exhausted. We hit our beds like a sack of potatoes at 9am. The next seven hours are spent in a zombiefied daze of Jerry Springer and a legless man.
By 4pm, we are not quite rejuvenated, but our bodies will not allow us to sleep anymore. We take the Blue line into downtown Chicago and have a blast wandering the streets: dancing puppets, the bean, grant park, and the plain, dark, majesty of the city disappearing into the fog. It was like a beautiful, classy stroll through Gotham City . . .

Dinner at Rock Bottom Brewing Company and we headed over for a visit to John and Sue, my aunt and uncle. Despite being overworked and ill, John and Sue took us in, gave us a beer, and gave us a tour of their AMAZING sky line. After an hour, we bid our gracious hosts goodbye, with many apologies for our intrusion.

Blue line back to the hotel, crashed at 2am. `Awoke´ at 3am to catch our 6am flight. This time around, our flights were on time and our luggage followed us all the way to Guatemala City . . .

15 Minutes to Quetico

2008-06-01T19:13:00.000-07:00

Vicious rumors have been whipping around that in my latest trip to the Quetico, I acted in an aloof, cavalier, and idiotic manner, resulting in the endangerment of my trip to Guatemala, my idenity, my entire savings, and the lives of myself and five others. I deny this slander vehemently. But one cannot un-ring a bell - so I present to you, my lovers, the story of what would have happened if six voyageurs were to hypothetically act in an aloof, cavalier, and idiotic manner.

“15 Minutes to Quetico”

Day 1

Chapter 1 - 15 minutes, 9 packs, 6 people, 4-6 baseballs, 2 dogs, and 1 canoe

The cast of characters include:
Chris and Emily – my longtime college friends
Dave and Dan Sargent– brothers, Dave is a friend of mine and co-worker of Chris

Evan and Taryn – 'ice' buddies, traveling buddies, Taryn grew up in Stoughton, WI.

The second annual Quetico canoe trip was approaching, and we were unprepared as ever. The hopeful departure time of the trip was noon on Wednesday the 21^st of May.

Wednesday, the 21st of May

11am – Chris calls Dave

Chris, “What's up”
Dave, “I'm finishing up at REI”
Chris, “will you pick me a compression sack”
Dave, “Sure, I'm looking at them right now”
Chris, “Sweet, what is their smallest one”
Dave, “Blue”
Chris, “No, idiot, not the color size, the size”
Dave, “Yep, whatever you want”
Chris, “huh?!?, what is the size of the smallest compression sack?”
Dave, “Yep, the red one holds maybe 4-6 baseballs”
Chris, “good, get that one”
Dave, “okay . . . be home in 15 minutes”

12:30 pm Chris calls Dave

Chris, “Where are you?”
Dave, “on my way home, be there in 15 minutes”

1:30 pm

Dave arrives at Chris' house with his brother Daniel. Car is packed with 9 packs, 6 people, 2 dogs, and 1 canoe (Taryn's Canoe “Big Red”). The crew departs Madison by 3pm.

Chapter 2 – I am just one man . . . and my brother

We arrive in Eau Claire, WI for food, supplies, and a dog exchange. We meet Emily's father in the Oakwood Mall parking lot and exchange her dogs for an ultrasonic mosquito killer, 6 pairs of gloves, a roll of garbage bags, an inflatable dining room set, and an overheated and dehydrated stuffed cat. Despite dropping off two dogs, we gain 86 lbs in dead weight during the exchange. The car begins to bulge at the seems. After ditching the dogs, we head over to Norske Nook for a greasy lefse lunch and a genuine Northwood's Micro brew. Service was slow, food was cheap, and beer was contaminated with Guava juice, but the Banana Cream pie was killer. Our last errand was to pick up some drinks for the night. We stopped outside of a target and asked a guy walking out of the supermarket exit if this Target sold boos. He raised his arm in triumph and responded enthusiastically, “Hell Yeah, I just bought some!”. Inspired by this stranger's enthusiasm, we rushed in and bought a a bottle of Scotch and Brandy.

Finally back on the road, we pushed the pedal to the medal, hoping to make it to Dave's cabin on Lake Vermillion near Cook, MN before it got too late to consume our recent purchase. One-half hour after departing Eau Claire, Evan wearies of Chris' 90's alt pop rock playlist and searches for his ipod only to discover that his backpack is missing. The backpack contains Evan's passport, ipod, backup wallet (including credit cards), diary, book, important documents, car keys, and head lamp. Chris pulls over and Chris, Emily, Taryn, and Evan rack their brains as to where the back pack could be. Dave and Dan throw the Frisbee. Within minutes, Chris and Emily's iphones have the phone numbers and directions to the four location we stopped in Eau Claire: gas station, oakwood mall, Norske's nook, and Target. All four business' are called and all four know nothing about a lost backpack. After much searching and scrutinizing, Evan makes the painful decision to turn back to Eau Claire to search for the backpack. Dave and Dan are instructed to return to the car. Dave defends himself for not aiding in the search, “I am only one man . . . and my brother.” The time is now 8:30, we are driving backwards, and Dave's cabin is four hours away. Ugghh.

The search in Eau Claire yields no results, but I still have all my camping gear and my driver license, which is enough to get me into Canada and back. The show must go on . . .

We left Eau Claire for the second time at 10pm, seven hours later than expected. My travel companion's patience and sympathy was palpable. The car went quiet for the rest of the trip, and Chris' 90's alt pop rock set list shifted to his 90's girly alt pop rock set list. We dozed on and off for the four hours to Dave's cabin, where we arrived at 2am and immediately passed out.

Chapter 3 – The Longest Day: Voyageurs in Vietnam

We stumbled awake to our alarms at 5:45 am after three hours sleep. We packed up and headed out after a yummy egg and sausage breakfast, thanks to Dave the early riser. ½ mile down the road, Dan realizes that he has left his ipod shuffle behind at the cabin. Consensus being that the shuffle was an essential piece of camping equipment, we turned around and retrieved it. We left Dave's cabin for the second time at 7:30 am, 15 minutes later than our rendezvous time with Zupp's outfitters at Crane lake. Once on the road, we realize that we do not know how to get to Crane lake. Luckily, the iphone strikes again. With 1 bar of coverage, Dave's GPS equipped phone leads the way to Scott's Landing, home of the infamous Voyageurs, on Crane Lake.

We loaded up our gear and canoe on Zupp's boat in the enduringly chilly morning. Jan Zupp, aka “evil Kineviel on a speed boat” raced her way the 52 miles to Lac La Croix, slowing only for customs and the two tracked portages.

We arrived to Zupp's outfitter's on Lac La Croix around noon and loaded our two Kevlar rental canoes onto the boat. We all shuffled inside to buy our fishing licenses and get some route advice. We showed Marc Zupp our planned route – a 40 mile loop through rivers and small lakes that started at the north end of Lac La Croix and ended at the eastern end. Marc was insistent that the river at the north end of the lake was unnavigable due to the strength of the rapids in unusually high waters. Our eyes glazed over, our heads bobbed up and down, and we thought to ourselves, “will this old fogy ever shut up about these rapids”. Marc Zupp then suggested a loop departing from the western of the Lac La Croix through a portage to Lake Thompson. Our eyes glazed over, our heads bobbed up and down, and we thought to ourselves, “will this old fogy shut up about the Lake Thompson portage, we are going over the rapids!”.

Dave signed away our credit cards and lives and we got ready to leave. Evil Kinievel taxied us over to a campsite on an island in the middle of Lac La Croix. As she helped unload our gear and canoes, she left us with some parting words, “Don't mess with them rapids”. But the Zupp's weren't the only ones with advice for us . . . An Indian who worked for Zupp's informed us that he lived on the river at the north end of Lac La Croix and that it was DEFINITELY passable. He said that the sturgeon fishing on the river was excellent and instructed us on how to find due south by looking at the branches a of certain kind of pine tree.

After Zupp's left us behind, we communed on the island to weigh our options. On the one shoulder was the cautious Zupp's. On the other shoulder was the wise Indian, with firsthand knowledge of the river conditions, who was telling us what we wanted to hear. The boys already had their mind made up – and they had had an Indian on their side. The muted objections of Emily were unheeded and a 'group think' decision was made to proceed down the river at the north end of the island. Before departing, however, Evan made an ominous warning, “I want us all to be on the same page here. We are taking a route that we were specifically warned against taking. We are going to a place where no one is expecting us to be, where there are no medical facilities. Before we proceed, is everyone alright with this?” Emily's objections were once again unheeded, and we proceeded in cavalier fashion to the north end of Lac La Croix.

Before long, we reach the river mouth at the north end of Lac La Croix. The downstream river canoing is smooth sailing.

We reach the portage to the first rapids in no time at all. Dave declares, “at this rate, we'll finish our route in three days!”. We hoist our canoes on our shoulders and sludge along the muddy, flooded river bank. After 20 minutes of carrying 100 lbs on my back, I see Chris has stopped ahead of me. As I approach him, he says, “I have some good news and some bad news . . . the good news is that I found the portage, the bad news is that I it starts here”. We all dropped our canoes on a fallen log and processed the fact that we just exhausted ourselves to carry the canoes a distance that we could have easily paddled in three minutes.

Chris and I summoned the courage to hoist our canoes back on our already weary shoulders and push on. Within ten minutes, we cross a road and the portage dead ends. We bushwhacked through the forest in search of the the trail to no avail. An Indian drove through and saw two white boys holding canoes on their heads in the middle of the forest. He took pity on us and directed us to the correct portage, which split off from our trail almost at the beginning of our trek. We backtracked and found Taryn, Dan and Dave at the fork in the road that Chris and I had neglected to investigate. They had already taken their gear and canoes to the end of portage, and, having not seen us there, decided they had gone the wrong way and hauled everything back to the beginning of the portage. All in all, we managed to carry our canoes about four times longer than the portage required. A nice, smooth start to our trip!

We lunched at the end of the portage and planned our route around the eddy's formed by the rapids. All the while, an upside down aluminum canoe is ominously swirling around the bay. Chris and Emily escaped the bay first. Surprised by the strength of eddy, Chris and Emily overcompensate their paddling, drop a paddle, and nearly tip. After Chris and Emily's near miss, the rest of us hug the shore until the current subsides.

Having successfully navigated the rapids, we leaned back in our canoes, paddled easy, and basked in the smooth sailing of a sunny day.

Our peaceful ride was soon interrupted by the distant roaring of water clashing with rocks. To our surprise, we had come upon more rapids. We consulted our map , and confusion grew about our location. Either these rapids were not marked, or we were not where we thought we were. Which ever was the case, though, we decided to push forward. The river split around an island into three sets of rapids, all impassable. We found a fourth rapid that cut through a peninsula, forming an island with a well worn portage. We decided to take it. As Taryn and I pulled our boat onto the shore of the newly formed island, a paddle slipped into the water and was quickly picked up by the current. We had already lost one paddle today, and had no more to spare. Taryn leapt like a fierce leopardess into the brisk 40 degree water and snatched the paddle. This was the first of many drenchings to come . . .

We portaged our canoes to the backdrop of roaring waters and bickering brothers. Dan was demanding not to be treated like a child by his older brother, Dave.

We dropped our canoes downstream from the rapids, consulted our map, and came to a consensus on our location. The good news is that we were confident about our whereabouts. The bad news is that the rapids we portaged around were not labeled on the map. Another ominous sign unheeded by the cavalier canoers.

According to the map, we were taking a river route that would avoid all subsequent rapids and open up into a nice, calm bay after about 1 mile of paddling. We push on. The water picks up speed and ripples at the surface. Our ears perk, but these are certainly not white water rapids, and we ease through two bottlenecks without incident. The river then opens up into a bay and takes a sharp 180 degree turn. Evan and Taryn take the turn sharply and pull ahead of the other two boats. The ominous, not so distant, roaring of rapids returns. The current has picked up pace yet again. Ahead of us is a sharp, blind turn with quick water of the right side. Taryn posits, “Maybe we should stop”. Evan surveys the water and the rocky shore and retorts, “Its too late”. One second later, Taryn is paddling hard on the right side and Evan is ruddering hard on the left in an attempt to take the turn wide. Around the bend, pounding white water and a sizable drop open up to Evan and Taryn. We catapult to the far shore and big red jams into two flooded trees. Perpendicular to the rapids, but upright and stable, Taryn and I focus our attention on the two boats following us. Chris & Emily and Dave & Dan shoot around the turn and slide safely into the shoreline, about 10 feet upstream from Taryn and me. Chris declares, 'perfect, there's a portage right here!'. But the canoes nor paddlers grab a foothold, and within seconds, the current swings them around and pulls them downstream. Chris grabs a hold of my boat as he passes, and Dave grabs a hold of Chris' boat. My canoe is still jammed in the trees, perpendicular to the shore and only feet from land. The other two boats are side by side, parallel to shore, and Chris' hold onto our stern is only thing preventing them from dropping into the rapids. Nevertheless, Chris confidently utters that we are stable and alright. One second later, Chris' 'crazy creek' chair dislodges from his seat and and the canoe slips from underneath him, dropping him in the water. Emily, in the front of the boat, is catapulted into the tree, where she remains, frantically balling, for the next few minutes. Dave maintains his grip on the now uninhabited canoe, which swings perpendicular to shore and is caught by a tree. Dave and Dan's canoe, still parallel to shore, submerges underneath Chris' canoe and buries its bow into some underwater brush, its stern held in place underneath the stern of Chris' boat. Momentarily, all six of us are dumbstruck. In a span of 15 seconds, our mental states evolved from “We're going a bit quick” → “We're losing control” → “bummer, shoes might get wet” → “our canoes are going under” → “we might die”. After a brief pause of disbelief, our minds revert into survival mode and we all take action. Taryn and I jump out of our canoe, unload it, and bring it safely ashore. A congo line is formed in the waist deep water to unload the three bags from Chris' canoe and retrieve the frantic Emily from her tree. Next we decide to attempt to dislodge Chris's canoe from the tree. Unfortunately, it is ¾ submerged and full of water – the strength of all six of us would not even budge the canoe in the rushing water. Before a new plan of action can be formed, the canoe buckles under the pressure of the water and crumples around the tree like a candy wrapper. Dave and I had no time for disbelief – we immediately moved our attention to Dave 's upright, but submerged canoe a few feet downstream. Chris was not so focused, and was convinced both canoes were lost and that we were completely screwed. Dan, the rookie camper, thought to himself, “wow, and this is only the first day”. Taryn was preparing herself to kiss her Guatemala travel plans away in anticipation of a fatty airlift rescue bill. Emily just wanted to go home!

Dave and I deliberated whether to go after the bags inside his submerged canoe. But our deliberations were in vain. Chris' crushed canoe was no longer pinning Dave's canoe down. The canoe shot up and barrelled downstream. The four boys watched with dropping jaws, frozen in disbelief. The number '1750' flashes through Dave's mind (price tag on a new Kevlar canoe: $1750).

The girls jump into immediate action, sprinting and bushwhacking along the shore, following the escaped canoe. After 30 seconds of inaction, the boys shake themselves back into reality, and take chase after the girls. Taryn catches up with the canoe downstream from the rapids and is tempted to swim after it. Emily discourages her, as she's not wearing a life jacket. Taryn's intensity almost convinces Chris to jump in with her, but Chris decides against it. A pit forms in our collective stomach as we watch Dave's canoe disappear around the bend.

We regroup and commune quickly on a rock. We take stock of our situation: we are down two canoes and three packs, including one of our two food packs. We are missing two of our six sleeping bags and 1 of our three tents. A frost at this time of year is likely. Our situation is dire, but not doomed. If we can retrieve and rehab the second canoe, the six of us might still be able to paddle out of here. We sprint back to the rapids and portage Big Red and our remaining six backpacks to calmer waters downstream. Dave and I plow through the woods with the canoe, slicing our numbed feet and legs on the unnoticed vegetation below.

Our gear is gathered and we decide the first priority is a campsite, as we are beginning to lose sun and chances of retrieving Dave's canoe is slim. Taryn and I jump in our canoe and hug the shore, sticking close to our four companions who are bushwhacking along an increasingly thick shoreline. Luckily, Taryn spots a campsite a couple hundred meters ahead, and we taxi four people and six bags in two shifts to the island campsite. On the first ferry over, Evan notices a yellow lump in the water, up ahead and around the bend. “Is that the canoe?” Emily runs ahead to the campsite and confirms the miracle! The canoe is within striking distance, caught in an eddy, making wide circles. Taryn and I ferry the rest of the gear and people to the campsite.

We pick up Chris and go after the errant canoe, which has now escaped the eddy and is floating away (if we hadn't spotted the canoe when we did, it certainly would have floated out of view of the campsite). The canoe and the two packs tied inside it (Dave's Pack and a food bag) are towed to shore, where the canoe is righted. The back end of the canoe is crunched and cracked, but not totaled.

Overjoyed, we tow the canoe back in. On the way to the campsite, Taryn spot's Dan's pack, floating near shore in an inlet. We pick it up with the cherry on the sundae. We bring the canoe and all three missing packs back to the campsite to a hero's welcome. Finally, something goes right today!

In our absence, Emily, Dan and Dave have built a fire and hung approximately 100 feet of clothesline to dry everything we have. Our campsite erupts into a giant sprawl of camping gear and clothing in what was later labeled 'the great drying debacle'.

We ate hamburger helper, partied with Cider and Brandy, and re-hashed the days events in humor as if the afternoon were some distant memory. Within an hour, it was as if nothing had happened - Dave was hatching plans to continue our trip into Quetico and Evan was fishing. We started the day in vacation mode and ended the day in vacation mode, with a brief intermission for a near death event.

The sun sets on the longest day of our lives

Day 2 - A new route, a new boat

Everyone sleeps in after one of the longest days of their lives. We wake up, with a hangover, to a disaster of a campsite – every single piece of food, all our clothing, and every piece of equipment is strewn about over the entire campsite.

We eat oats and slowly start putting Humpty Dumpty back together again. Evan, Chris, and Taryn take Dave's crumpled canoe (hereafter referred to as 'old shitty') for a spin to test its seaworthiness. To our great surprise, not a single leak is discovered. We loaded her down with another person and more gear: the only visible crack had about 4'' clearance above the water line. Everyone rejoices and the slow, arduous process of six people packing up begins. We load up our boats and pull out our map (thank god the map was in Taryn and Evan's canoe – we would have been truly screwed without it). Dave and Chris want to investigate the possibility of continuing our trip into Quetico as planned. The girls, wearied of the boy's cavalier decision making, nix the idea immediately, citing the length of the route and the presence of yet more rapids. The wisdom of their words is immediately recognized by all. We choose a more direct route: return to Lac La Croix through Thompson Lake (the route that Marc Zupp had originally suggested to us).

We set out with a new route around noon. As the six of us pull out in our two canoes, Dave's Crazy Creek chair is found in the weeds. No matter how careless we are, we can't seem to lose anything! The only things missing during the entire debacle are Dan's 'Crazy Creek' Chair and fleece (and of course, Chris' crumpled canoe). Taryn and I pull ahead quickly, as 'old shitty's stern is badly crunched and is working as a rudder. Chris paddles on the right, but the boat goes right regardless.

½ hour into the paddling, we pass the turnoff to Quetico - 15 minutes to Quetico - so close, so far away. We press on towards Thompson Lake. Another ½ hour later, Taryn and Emily spot a flooded aluminum boat on the flooded shoreline. We extricate the mammoth 3-seat, 22 foot, 125 lb. square stern fishing boat and tow it between our two canoes.

We find a solid piece of shoreline and park our boats. The aluminum fishing boat (hereafter referred to as 'tank') is flipped and drained of its water.

Tank looks battled, but seaworthy, and we load it up. Having commandeered Tank, we were now able to tow old shitty behind for the rest of the trip.

Before long, we make it to our first portage. With the extra boat, the portage had to be done in two shifts. First we carried the gear, and then came back for the boats.

The four boys hoisted Tank above their heads and trek about 100 feet before exhaustion sets in. We employed various means of transporting Tank, none even moderately successful. The heavy load was exacerbated by a steep hill and thorny bushes. We had a tick infested cheese and sausage lunch, a quick dip in the frigid waters, and got back on the water quickly, as we were once again battling the daylight.

We crossed a small lake and navigated a peaceful, beaver damed stream into No Name Lake, where we were greeted by a projectile shitting bald eagle. We were one lake short of Thompson Lake, our goal for the day, but the position of the sun dictated we find a campsite as soon as possible. A peninsula on No Name Lake offered a great fire pit and room for two tents. We set up camp and were fishing within minutes of our arrival. On Chris' first six casts, he had one follow and one miss and caught a nice Pike and a fatty walleye.

Unfortunately, butter fingers dropped the walleye back in the lake as he was getting ready to fillet the fish. Our hearts sunk. But the fish continued to attack, and Taryn soon reeled in an even larger walleye, which we promptly filleted.

Darkness moved in and hunger forced us to abandon the excellent fishing for the campfire.

Emily cooked up some killer Hamburger Helper and Taryn's walleye was the tastiest fish I have ever eaten. A few more Cider Brandy's. Dave struggles to hang a rope in a tree for a bear bag. Chris instructs Dave to tie a rock to the end of the rope to aid the process. Dave instead decides to tie a long, gnarled stick to the end of the rope. And thus began the great Bear Bag fiasco of 2008.

Taryn and Evan spend the night under the stars.

Day 3 – The life of Riley

The wind picked up early in the morning and persisted the entire day. The water was too cold to swim in and the wind was too strong to take the boat out fishing. So we had a lazy day.

Evan caught a pike early, and then the rest of the morning we were skunked.

Taryn inspired the best meal of he trip

Lunch was followed by a sheepshead game in which the Sargent brothers fell asleep. Afternoon naps for everyone – we were all waiting for evening so we could fish again. The nighttime fishing yielded several pike and another fatty walleye. Evan sharpened his skills at removing the Y-bone and Dave brushed up on his filleting skills.

Early bedtime due to the constantly annoying high winds. Evan and Taryn were rudely awakened by raindrops at 2 am and forced to snuggle into the Sarge's and Chris & Emily's tents respectively.

Day 4 – 15 minutes away

Slept in, packed up, and on the water around 11am. The creek into Thompson Lake was littered with beaver dams but nevertheless navigable, and a portage was gladly avoided.

Upon entry into Thompson Lake, Dave spotted some fool's gold and jumped in after it. After 15 minutes of digging through the rocky bottom to no avail, the irony of the situation failed to dawn upon Dave.

We canoe across the wide open lake in light winds and strong sun. Chris calls Dave out on his inability to string 10 paddle strokes together without a break. Dave retorts by taking a break to explain to Chris his 'Conservation of Effort' theory.

The lake is absolutely gorgeous, with smooth, majestic rock formations, perfect for lunching, sunbathing, swimming, and fishing.

We all wanted to spend the night on Thompson Lake. We stopped on an island to weigh our options . . .
The day is Sunday. Our rendezvous time with Zupp's was Tuesday at 11am. We were now only one portage away from Lac La Croix, but our rendezvous point with the Zupp's was eight miles from the end of the portage on Lac La Croix. The Sarge's push to camp on Lake Thompson, believing the portage and eight mile paddle across Lac La Croix can be easily accomplished the next day, on Monday. Evan is indifferent. Chris, Emily, and Taryn would like to camp, but vote to portage to Lac La Croix today, citing fears that the paddle across the massive Lac La Croix might be hellish if winds picked up.

Democracy reigns and we begin paddling for the portage. Winds pick up a bit. Dave declares we have a 15 minute paddle to the portage. One and ½ hours later, we pull our canoes up to the portage. The path was wide and well worn. We declared it the best maintained portage yet!

This was to be the longest portage of the trip – nearly a mile long to Lac La Croix. Once again, we were doing the portage in two shifts: gear first, and then canoes. 400 meters down the path, the route dead ends at a pond. Chris vaguely remembers Marc Zupp describing this portage as having two 'puddle jumpers', but our recollection of Zupp's advice and directions is fuzzy, as our eyes were glazed over at that point of the conversation. Confident that this was the first of the two 'puddle jumpers,' we hopped in our canoes and searched for the continuation of the portage. Chris and Taryn each found trails, but both were terribly overgrown. Chris' trail led steeply up a hill to a second 'puddle jumper'. Evan finds it strange that the trail that was so well maintained before the first puddle jumper would suddenly be overgrown, but group consensus is to portage up Chris' route to the second puddle jumper. The portage was short but steep, engulfed with brush, and littered with large boulders. The gear and first two canoes went up without incident but with great exertion. And then there was tank. We tied a rope to Chris' PFD and he dragged tank up the hill like a pack mule, while the rest of us pushed from behind. It was tough going but by far the most successful method of transporting tank yet.

The second puddle jump was actually a damed beaver lake. We paddled through and soon found an opening through the shoreline vegetation that led to a trail. Taryn jumped out to explore the well worn path, but it petered out after 15 meters. Taryn, the Sargent's, and Emily took lunch while Chris and Evan took old shitty out to find the portage. Eight more trails were discovered and explored, all petered out after 15 meters. These weren't trails, these were beaver runs. There was no portage to be found. We realize that the portage into this lake was most likely a beaver run as well. Suddenly, our situation was once again feeling a bit dire.

We prop ourselves up with the knowledge that we are not lost, and according to our map, Lac La Croix is 500 meters south, southeast from our position. Emily, Taryn, and the Sarge's head out into the woods with a compass in search of Lac La Croix. They form a yelling chain, so as to not lose each other or the route back to the second puddle jumper. Dan is at the end of the yelling chain, and after 45 minutes, has left earshot. Our stomachs crawl up into our throats – not only have we lost our way, we lost Dan. Then, in the distance, we hear a faint echo, “I see water”.

A collective sigh – we are not lost, Lac La Croix is close . . .

The group reconvenes at 6:00 pm. We are losing light. We have to find a campsite. The map indicates a campsite on the near shore of Lac La Croix that we are confident we can reach. Only problem is that we are weary of bushwhacking with canoe's on our heads. We simply do not have the strength to carry our gear and canoes in one go, and we do not have the time to make two trips. Despite Taryn's objections, we decide to leave the canoe's behind, with a plan of retrieving them in the morning. Taryn begins ripping up her underwear and handkerchiefs to flag our route through the forest to Lac La Croix. We follow our compass south southeast and leave an Hansel and Gretel trail of shredded underwear to mark our path back to the abandoned canoes from Lac La Croix. By 7:30 pm, we have reached water. Much Rejoicing. Taryn marks the end of the trail with a pair of pink and purple flowered panties. Wearied by a long day of exertion, we set out to find the campsite. After an hour of bushwhacking the shoreline with two packs on our backs, we concede that our map has once again led us astray: there is no campsite here. The sun is setting behind layers of purple and pink pluming thunderclouds, each layer more massive and sublime than the next. Thunder is echoing on the horizon. The entire forest is alight for seconds at a time by bright, piercing lightning. Dave begins work on a campfire – Emily scolds his stupidity and orders him to set up his tent before all hell breaks loose.

We pick the flattest area in sight and set up our tents in the bush. Seconds later, the sky is dark and the downpour begins. We all retreat to our tents for a dinner of PB and J pitas, Hershey chocolate bars, and wafers. By ten pm, the roar of six exhausted snoring voyageurs battles the thunder and pounding rain.

Day 5 - The resurrection of Tank

Evan and Taryn awake to drizzle at 7am and arouse the others with a screechingly off-key version of the children's classic, “It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood”. We dawn our most fashionable raingear and by 8am we're trekking the underwear trail. Twenty five wet minutes later and we arrive at the second puddle jumper and discussions begin as to the best method for getting the canoes through the woods. Despite Evan and Taryn's objections, the decision is made to bring tank with us. Chris and Emily lead the way with 'old shitty, Evan and Taryn follow with Big Red, and the Sargent's hold the rear position with tank. Everyone except the Sarge's are skeptical that tank is going to make it to Lac La Croix. The flags were pronounced in the dreary weather: we were not in danger of getting lost. The canoes were hoisted around trees, over boulders, through dense brush, and up and down hills. The tank was not carried, but rather pushed and dragged along the moistened forest floor by the Sargent brothers.

We were all in the zone, with only the singular goal of Lac La Croix in our minds. 2 hours after departing from the second puddle jumper, the exhausted campers reach the lake. We all touch the pink and purple panties in triumph. Everyone applauds Dave and Dan for their Herculean effort of tugging and towing their tank a mile through the thick forest. Dave gave all the credit to Dan, who was determined, at any cost and despite all the doubters, to rescue the tank. Dan later remarked, “Tank was like a Ouija board, I went where it took me”.

But we took little time to bask in our victory. We were all cold, and still had plenty to do today. We broke camp and ate a quick breakfast. Taryn warmed some water for Dave's cappuccino. By noon, we were back on the water. Our goal was Campbell's outfitter's, about 4 miles east of us on the northern shore of Lac La Croix. Tank had a big blue Campbell's sticker on it, and we thought they might appreciate getting their boat back. But the drizzle continued and the winds picked up. Despite three paddlers in each boat, it often required our full effort to hold our ground and maintain our direction in the stiff headwind. Our pace was dismal, but within two hours, we reached the calm bay where Campbell's outfitter's resides.

The kids running Campbell's were surprised to see us and asked us if we had been in the hail storm last night. Apparently, marble sized hail was dropped only a few miles from our campsite the night before. They inquired about our route and we informed them that we had come from Thompson Lake. They gave us the crook eye and exclaimed skeptically, “Thompson Lake? That Portage hasn't been done in ten years!”. We nodded, and replied, “Well, now it has, and there is an underwear trail to prove it!”

Campbell's advised not getting back on the water, as heavy weather and snow was predicted to continue for the next couple days. They radioed Zupp's to pick us up, and thus, the adventure of the voyageurs came to an end.

All in all, my emotions surrounding the trip are mixed. The decisions we made could have cost us our lives. But there is also a bright side to this story. There was more than one instance where our situation demanded nothing short of a calm, cool, and focused mind in the face of dire circumstances. Not once did we bicker or lose control of our emotions. Rather, we cooperated to make quick, safe, and intelligent decisions. We worked together as a team, never leaving anyone behind, and always making decisions as a group. In the end, we were all scarred and humbled by our cavalier decision-making, but everyone can come away from the trip proud of the way that they reacted.

PS A good Samaritan returned my backpack to the Oakwood Mall lost and found, with nothing missing. I picked it up on my way back to Madison. Don't listen to the news, people are good.

The Blogosphere re-visited

2008-05-31T18:41:00.000-07:00

Well, I wish I had some exciting reason for not updating my blog over the last three months . . . but I have no excuses. I've been bumming around WI for the last five weeks, neglecting my lovers.
Heres the quick update of the last three months:
I cycled the southern half of the South Island after getting off the ice. The route from CHC to Dunedin was uneventful, unspectacular, wet, and chilly (sorry, folks, I'm a spoiled brat). The southern tip of the south island was nice, with a gorgeous cruise through the Catlins. Once I reached the Fjordlands and the west coast, I was re-introduced to my love affair with New Zealand. I drooled, I cried, I sweated, I laughed - all my favorite things.
And, the big news, that I have so excitedly already professed to so many of you: I fell in love in Hari Hari, at the wildside backpackers, with a German girl named Marie. We spent two weeks together, and then I flew back to States. Bonehead move. Now we're floating in the ether, an ocean and a language apart. I'll let you know when I decide what the hell to do about this one!
So that's that. I fell in love with New Zealand, for the second time. I fell in love with a girl, maybe for the first time. And now I'm home, afloat in indecision.
I fly to Guatemala on Wednesday. The goal is to sharpen the Spanish skillz. That, of course, is on top of learning German. Ughh, I wish I had had a multilingual nanny.
Quick stats:
178 lbs
5 lbs above cycling weight
18 different life goals
3 days until Guatemala!
10 days at my cabin
5 days at canoing
1 near death experience (read ahead . . . )

Update

2008-03-05T19:16:00.000-08:00

Hello All,
Things are well. I don't have much time at this expensive interent cafe, so a few words will have to be taken for more.
I cycled out of CHC on highway 73 and then turned south on Highway 77 / 72 through Darfield, Rakai Gorge, Mayfield, and Geraldine along the inland scenic route. South of Temuka I hopped onto the not so scenic highway 1 where I have been cycling the last two days. I'm currently in Oamaru and will be taking a rest this weekend in Dunedin, at which point I hope to update the blog.

So it begins . . .

2008-02-26T13:53:00.000-08:00

Things are beginning to fall into place.

I bought a bike for $200 yesterday and I will pick it up today. I will once again be travelling with a system of bucket panniers, duct tape, and bungees.

I travel south tomorrow, in anticipation of coastal vistas, mountains, penguins, fjordlands, and in hopes of meeting up with my hero, Steve Kafka.

Not sure how long I will be here, maybe only long enough to travel about 1500 k or so, depending on whether I summon the courage to do an alpine crossing (Lewis or Arthur's pass).

I'm entering this trip with a bit of trepidation, with feelings of being a bit lost. As always, I search for my answers on the road . . .

I will see you all soon, my friends and lovers.

Glory Glory

2008-02-25T03:12:00.000-08:00

I walked off the plane . . .

my nostrils filled with dense, full air
my skin tingled in the 70 degrees temperature
the fresh air filtered through sandals
the stars were breaking through the sky
as the sun set over the airport . . .

an incredible feeling walk into a plane in Antarctica
and walk off a plane in New Zealand

Yes,
after three days of weather delay,
I have arrived in New Zealand
and Glory Glory
Glory Glory . . .

Glory Glory

Evan is a happy boy

Soon I will be departing Christchurch and heading south via bicycle
as soon as I buy a bike

Today, dreams of biking and spanish lessons in Guatamala
began fermenting in my head . . .

but what about India?

Stranded (Part II) . . .

2008-02-21T12:39:00.000-08:00

My bags are packed . . .
I'm ready to go . . .
But I'm not leaving on a jet plane . . .

Planes are grounded again. My flight was scheduled for Thursday, the 21st. Today is Friday the 22nd, and we're currently in the midst of a 30 hr weather hold on all flights. The next scheduled flight leaves Christchurch on Saturday, the 23rd at 1pm, which would arrive here at around 6pm and then return to Christchurch at about 1am in the morning on the Sunday the 24th. Of course, that will not happen, weather forecasts continue to look dreary. We could leave tomorrow morning, we could leave next week. As usual, we are remaining 'flexible'.

A wise woman once told me, "It used to be that the man on top was the meanest, hardest son of a bitch in the room. Nowadays, the best survival skill is 'flexibility'". Don't ask me what that means, just know that it rings of truth.

I paced myself so that I would be exhausted and ready to go yesterday. Now, I have two more days of working and goodbye dance parties. Maybe I can catch some ZZZ's in thge loader today . . .

Sorry, Hooch

2008-02-19T17:39:00.000-08:00

I finally saw my first emperor penguin.

It went down like this . . .

We were working an especially hectic afternoon at Pegasus airfield, when a co-worker of mine, Hooch, grabbed my attention and waved me towards him. I approached cautiously. He stuck his arm out for me to come in closer and told me he had something really important to show me. My experience with Hooch informs me that he was reeling me in only to assault my nostrils with one of his frequent and famously noxious farts. I backed away and went to work. Hooch was hurt.
Several minutes later, a less mischevious co-worker, Sky, pointed out to me a lone, molting emperor penguin, lounging on the apron, watching the deafening planes come and go. The penguin waried of the noise after long, and began to lumber away, but not before we greeted each other.

I was overjoyed to finally see somwething 'new' this year. And how cool the emperor's are: polar opposites from the Adelie's (no pun intended) - lumbering, dignified, bulky, calm - like an overweight, weathered, wise old man.

Yeah for Penguins!

Big Dead Place

2008-02-18T13:32:00.000-08:00

Antarctica is cathedral-like mountain vistas, sublime whiteness, unearthly blue icebergs, and adorable penguins. That's true. Its also true that Antarctica is infested with invasive species, saturated with diesel, bureaucratic, radioactive, dirty and slutty.
Most people want to believe, and most people want you to believe that Antartica is the former. Nick Johnson, veteran icer, exposes the latter perspective in "Big Dead Place", a book that I refer to as the people's history of Antarctica.
I'm currently working my way through the book - its everything ridiculous, outrageous, unsavory, and hypocratic about the United States Antarctic Program and the people who inhabit this strange place.
Check out some of the featured articles on Nick's website in you're interested in looking past the propaganda of the Antarctic 'experience': http://www.bigdeadplace.com/

Stranded . . .

2008-02-18T13:08:00.000-08:00

. . . in McMurdo

A nasty storm has descended upon the Ross Ice Shelf, resulting in the cancellation of the C-17 from Christchurch today. Approximately 100 people will be here at least a day longer than expected. This storm is expected to last a few days, which may put my departure date of Thursday, the 21st in jeopardy.

I'm hoping this is not the case, since I have a sailing trip lined up on Friday.

Other than sailing, my plans are vague. I will see 'Ween' in Wellington on the 26th. After that, I may buy a bike and start cycling south towards Dunedin, for a hopeful reunion with my hero, Captain Steve Kafka of the expedition vessel Evohe. Throw some hikes in along the way, and it should be all gravy baby.

Polar Plunge

2008-02-13T21:54:00.000-08:00

Well, what would any rational being do in the Antarctic, but jump in the water.
Scott Base holds an annual polar plunge in a pressure ridge that opens up during the summer season.
Every year, Pudgy, pasty Antarticans strip down, climb into a harness, and take the leap into the 29 degree Ross Sea.

I took three plunges in all. On the last one, I summoned the courage to dive to the bottom and grabbed some rocks from the sea bed.

The kiwi's out-did themselves this year with a hot tub for the plungers. They stuck a sea ice hole melter in a large bin of saltwater - warming it to a gorgeous 104 degrees.

So, why would one do a polar plunge? Boasting rights? A Hero shot for the blog? To feel alive?

Here's my belly . . .

2008-02-13T21:43:00.000-08:00

yep, nice and healthy.

A nice, long, bike ride in New Zealand sounds just about right.

Here's some stats:

174 lbs.

7 days left on the ice

5 days of work

10 ten gallons of beer, ready on Saturday

4 gallons of mead, ready . . . in a few months - bummer

6 different travel plans

Well, that about says it. I'm ready to go, I'm excited for New Zealand. I'm still wandering.

Solar Eclipse

2008-02-13T21:32:00.000-08:00

There was a soalr eclipse here the other day. Everyone was really excited.

But it was cloudy, and you had to squint to see it.

Its time to go

2008-02-13T20:10:00.000-08:00

Well, its been an incredible season. I've been STUNNED everyday by my surroundings. I've driven every sort of strange vehicle in every sort of extreme condition. I've uploaded and downloaded Hercs and C-17's. I've fallen in love twice. I got laid once. I've adventured in my mind. It's been a damn good season . . .

. . . and I'm a happy boy, but . . .

. . . the beauracracy, the isolation, the beauracracy, the dorms, the beauracracy, the food, and the beauracracy have worn me thin. Its time to go. McMurdo is an outrageous place, it is a place of extremes: The Ross Ice Shelf, famous as the most pure H2O on planet Earth, hovers above McMurdo Bay, famous for it's toxic levels of mercury, petrol, and waste; innocent Penguins wabble their way in fascination towards Humans in Big Reds as those same humans melt their habitat and only chance at survival; 50 knot winds blister through the frigid Ross Island desert as a frenzied, humid, costume party rages in a quanza hut; Mount Erebus, the southermost volcano in the world, streams a constant puff of white smoke, while McMurdo, the southernmost town in the world, puffs a constant cloud of diesel exhaust, poignant from 20 kilometers away; skuas scrounge for Penguins chicks and moldy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; Wind Turbines are installed up the hill from the (hush hush) buried nuclear reactor; the vast silence of the Sea ice offset by the constant groan of diesel sucking machines; ten million gallons of petrol is guzzled by the USAP every year in search of the 'cure' for global warming, beaurocrats stress the importance of wearing my safety glasses as I drive a 40 thousand pound load of cargo up a dusty hill in a 35 year old vehicle with broken windows and shoddy brakes.

I suppose I sound cynical or bitter. Not the case, really. I have great fondness for McMurdo. Its awesome here. It's real humanity. It's been an incredible and fascinating and novel experiment in extremes and the clash of those extremes. It's living history. It's a microcosm of humanity, of who we are, of what we dream for, of our ugliness, of our hypocracy, of our shortsightedness, of our genius, of our creativity, of our sense of beauty, of our endurance and adaptability and adventurousness. There is absolutely nowhere like it on earth. I love it.

But I will never return again . . . Two seasons of McMurdo beaurocracy is enough.

This is a short video of my boss. His name is Billy T. He is a terrible dancer and an even worse manager. Among his skillset is stretching an hour of work into a full, lucrative workday and hitting on the office staff. He has never looked me in the eye (presumably becasue I do not have boobies) and has never indicated to me that he knows my name.

What if it comes down to Hillary vs McCain?

2008-01-29T15:17:00.000-08:00

What would you do?

Please leave your answer in the comment section below!

The Longest Day

2008-01-29T09:13:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm now two thousand, three hundred, and seventy nine hours and 49 minutes into the second longest day of my life. Aproximately five hundred and thirty seven hours remaining. This day is about 100 times longer than humans have evolved to endure.

Song of the Wanderer

2008-01-25T14:46:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, I discovered that Ween was going to be playing in Wellington, New Zealand on the 26th of February. Ween is among the top bands that I'm itching to see for the first time. So the timing is fortuitous, considering I leave the ice on February 21, or some time thereabouts.

With this discovery came a rather dramatic realization: The Ween concert on the 26th of February in Wellington is the ONLY future plan that I have. I have no employment or career plans, I have no travel plans, I have no recreational plans, I have no future girlfriend plans. The only thing that pins any moment of my future to any particular place or activity, is the Ween concert (which, by the way, I haven't yet bought tickets for). I don't have any plane tickets or weddings to go to. Or even a dentist appointment. My future is a vast, white, mystery.

I suppose this shouldn't surprise me, but it does. I've always enjoyed wandering, I've always enjoyed not knowing, living in-between, I've always done it by the seat of my pants, on a whim. And I've always strove to find a way to live 'in the moment'.

Well, I suppose that's where I am. I have no possible future moments planned out, so I must be "in the moment".

Now that I'm here, it's a bit terrifying. I've worked to get here. I realize that this is a novel and privileged place to be. I'm proud to be here, where most everything is light and easy.

But the fact that I'm here is a sign I need to move on.

Maybe to India. Maybe not.

At about the same time as this realization, I came upon this poem:

"The Song of the Wanderer", from "The Unicorn Chronicles" by Bruce Coville

Across the gently rolling hills,
Beyond high mountain peaks,
Along the shores of distant seas,
There's something my heart seeks.

But there's no peace in wanderering,
The roads not made for rest.
And footsore fools will never know,
What home might suit them best.

But oh, the things that I have seen,
The secret paths I've trod,
The hidden corners of the world
Known to none, but me and God.

Yes, the world was meant for knowing,
And feet were meant to roam.
But one who's always going
Will never find a home.

Oh, where's the tread that binds me,
The voice that calls me back?
Where's the love that finds me-
And what's the root I lack?

My heart seeks the hearth,
My feet seek the road.
A soul so divided
Is a terrible load.

My heart longs to rest,
My feet yearn to roam.
Shall I wander the world
Or stay safe at home?

Whales!

2008-01-25T14:27:00.000-08:00

With the coming of the Oden comes wildlife. The seals bath themselves in the sun along the shores of the channel. And Orcas and Minke Whales come into McMurdo Bay to exploit the virgin feeding grounds . . . Well, the feeding grounds aren't completely virgin: McMurdo Bay has suffered severe Mercury Pollution since the Navy set up camp in 1956.

Minke Whale in McMurdo Bay off Hut Point.

Vessel

2008-01-25T12:47:00.000-08:00

Not much happens in McMurdo; everyday is pretty much the same. So we sustain ourselves on the rumor mill and boos, which kind of feed each other. Everyonce in a while, though, something actually happens. One of those happenings is the arrival of the vessels at the end of each summer season.

A couple weeks ago, the Sweedish icebreaker "Oden" began cutting a channel though the sea ice. The Oden operates by a system of ballast that accomodates 3650 square meters of sea water. The Oden powers its way on top of the ice, lubricated by a hull wash system that constantly propels water down its bow. As the ship crests on top of the ice, the 3650 square meters of water ballast shifts to the bow of the boat, and the ice beneath is crushed. According to its specs, the Oden can cut through 1.9 m level ice at 3 knots.
The Oden's system of icebreaking is slightly different from the icebreakers employed by the US Coast Guard: the Polar Sea and the Polar Star. These vessels operate more as battering rams through the ice, although, they as well can shift water ballast. Last year, the USAP employed both the Oden and the Polar Sea. It was found that the Oden was a more effective icebreaker (or possibly less expensive?) for our conditions, so this year the Oden is our sole icebreaker.

This is the Oden docked in McMurdo Bay.

After the Oden has cut a navigable channel through the semi-permanent sea ice (the last time the sea ice melted all the way to the permanant Ross Sea Ice Shelf was 1988), the resupply vessels are free (sort of) to dock at McMurdo. This includes the fuel tanker Lawrence H. Gianella and cargo vessel American Tern.

Below is sat photo of the Southeastern edge of the Ross Sea. The left side of the photo is the TransAntarctic Moutain Range. The bottom right is the Ross Sea Ice Shelf. And the the tiny bulb jutting out of the ice shelf is the northern Peninsula of Ross Island, which is now exposed to open water.

Below is a recent sat image of Ross Island. You can see that the northern shores of the island are now exposed to the Ross Sea. The Southern shores are, as always, encrusted in the permanent Ross Sea Ice Shelf. McMurdo Staion is located on the tip of the southern peninsula of Ross Island. The ice to the left of the Peninsula is semi-permanent sea ice. The ice to the right of the peninsula is the permanent ice shelf. In 1988, the sea ice melted and blew away, exposing McMurdo station to the Ross Sea. Every year since then, an icebreaker has been employed to cut a channel through the sea ice. The channel through the sea ice that leads to McMurdo is visible in the photo.

Below is a map tracking the progress of the icebreaker Oden, the American Tern, the Lawrence H. Gianelli, and the NSF research vessel Nathaniel B. Palmer. You may need to enlarge this one to figure it out.

The Gianella was scheduled to dock on Monday, January 21st. Unfortunately, the tanker has become encumbered in ice in the Ross Sea, and has not moved for several days. These are pictures from the standed Gianella.

The Oden is on its way to free the ship, and should meet the Gianella sometime today. If the Oden is able to escort the Gianella into McMurdo, then the fuel tanker would arrive sometime next week. That, however, is a big 'if'. Several years ago, the tanker was unable to navigate its way into McMurdo Bay, and the fuels operators in McMurdo were forced to run fuel lines for miles along the shore of Ross Island in order to reach the tanker. This is a Herculean task, and involves extending the summer season for certain departments. It's an unlikely scenario, but its also a reminder of how vulnerable we are to the whims of weather.

Due to the delay of the Gianella, the American Tern is also behind schedule. Cargo Vessel Offload is the busiest time of the year for most departments. When vessel arrives, the bars shut down, the store discontinues the sale of alcohol, most departments switch to a twelve hour workday, and the cargo department does not get a day off until the vessel is unloaded of its cargo and reloaded with garbage and retro (the term given to overstock or unneeded items on station). This is usually (I use this term lightly) a five day process. The American Tern was scheduled to arrive on the third of February, but we'll wait and see. I'll keep you posted!

Update . . .

2008-01-14T19:48:00.000-08:00

Well,
thats it for pretty pictures folks . . . I've uploaded everything fresh I've got.
So now, you're going to have to entertain yourself with the disjointed, semi-literate word associations of an uncreative poet. My advice to you in weeding through this diatribe, use your imagination, be creative, maybe even stretch the pathetic truth.

So, where we at sucka's? Oh yeah, still in Antarctica. Reality check.

Um, I'll start out with some stats
- 172 pounds, dehydrated
- 4 batches of beer down, and
- 1 to go
- 5 weeks until I blow this popstand
- 2 indiscriminate firings this week (just when I thought old uncle Ray had gone soft on me)
- 5 days in quarantine for the flu, yuckity-poo
- 1, 2, or 3 family members visiting me in New Zealand, cross my fingers!

Yep, just got out of quarantine. Five days. thats like 150 hours in my room. thats like 150 hours on my bed, staring at the ceiling, reading Michael Pollan, Ken Kesey, and Al Gore. Alright, we get it Al, TV is poison! But, can't I have just a little while I'm sick? Thats when I'm most vulnerable, you say? Goddamnit, but how can I possibly survive an illness without TV? Its in my Gene's to survive an illness, thats why I'm still here, you say? Goddamnit Al, what is it with you. I'm tired of all your incessant reliance on reason and science, alright, it gets old and tiring and boring. Now a TV news segment, that never gets old or tiring or boring, I mean look at those flashing bombs and fire graphics and people yelling at me. I mean, if they're yelling, it must be important, right? Oh, thats the whole problem you say, its overactivating our nervous response system, screwing with our brains, turning our frontal lobes off. Ahh, now I see, Al. The problem is that you think with your frontal lobe too much Al. You should open yourself up to a larger diversity of your brain. For instance, I like to turn on fox news, and just let the amygdala, my fear center, run rampant for a while. A couple hours later, I come to, and I'm convinced that world is going to end, unless, of course, I vote for a neo-con. Wait, Al, where are you going? Think Amygdala, Al, amygdala!

I had a few feverish and delusional conversations with Al while I was couped up, they never seemed to end well.

But I'm free now, and sanity and socialabilty are both coming into focus, and my bed sores are clearin' right up. But man, quarantined in McMurdo - its no fun. All your meals have to be brought to you, people reel away from you when they realize you're sick, you have to wear a mask when you leave your room to pee, they paint a giant 'S' on your door in Scarlet Red Paint, your 5x5 square foot space gets smaller and smaller by the hour, your roommate moves into his girlfriend's room to avoid the plague . . . just to give you an idea.

But I'm free now, with only a trace of the nasty cough I endured for the last week.
The first of my close friends, Tia, is leaving on a jet plane tomorrow. Its goddamned sad, that I'm going to slowly lose my friends, my community over the coming weeks. I'm on the second to last flight, so I'll get to watch everyone leave. The first wave of nostalgia hits tonight, at her going away party . . . Goddamn.

Spirits are quite well, though. As always, things are lookin up. Maybe you don't know this about me (not to rub it in or anything), but everything always comes up aces for me. I learned the deck is stacked in my favor, so I'm putting all my money on the table, becasue I know that an ace is on top. I could ask for a reshuffle, ya know, to make the game fair, but I think that would make me a bolshevik or something, and I won't stand for that.

But really, bullshitting aside, I'm well. I've been really, really great for, like, six months now, except for that month when I was working nights and my roommate left, and I holed myself up in my room. I suppose its really easy to be well, when your life is a vacation and the deck is stacked in your favor!

Speaking of vacation, I've got one coming up . . . at least, a vacation away from my current vacation. Yep, I'm going to New Zealand! I got a line on another bike in Christchurch, so I might be doing some more biking. But I definitely want to do some serious trekking as well. Oh yeah, and I gotta talk to Steve Kafka, capain of the Evohe, I really want to get back on that boat! He's been playing around in the Antarctic waters again. Ya know, Steve is always on vacation, just like myself. We must have been dealt the same winning hand. Just like Bart says on Rock, Paper, Scissors: "Good old Rock, nothin' beats that!"
So, hopefully, more cycling and tramping in New Zealand, maybe an oceanic adventure to boot! And hopefully, a little traveling by car, as well, if my mom makes it down!

And then India, for a looooooooooooooong time, ya know, just to reshuffle a bit. Sorry mom, this might have to be the case. Its in my blood, so I guess I can kinda blame that on you, right?

Unconventional downloads

2008-01-14T19:12:00.000-08:00

Normally, when an LC-130 or C-17 aircraft has cargo to download, we pick the cargo pallets off the planes with loaders.

Or, to expedite the process, we push a sled behind the plane, and the pallets are rolled off onto the sled

After the cargo is downloaded, we place on the bed a 'delta' truck, and drive it back into town.

And we do our jobs gladly, show or shine . . .

For any number of reasons, there are also a number of unconventional methods to downloading cargo.

Below, an L-C130 'Hercules' is doing a 'combat offload' or 'drifting' its cargo. With its props still running, the plane opens its hatch and simply dumps its cargo onto the apron.

In remote locations too distant to be supported by choppers or smaller airplanes, such as the Baslars or twin otters, an airdrop is an option . . .

Yummy

2008-01-14T18:54:00.000-08:00

I nabbed these off our shared network drive - hotdog!

Hut Point

Mt. Discovery - an inactive volcano, part of the Antarctic Mountain Chain

Ice Runway with the Royal Society Mountain Range in the background. The Ice Runway, located directly in front of McMurdo on the annual ice shelf, serves as the sole airstrip for the first half of the Summer season. As the ice thins, the airstrip closes, and LC-130's (Hercs), Baslers, and the twin otters are diverted to Williams Field and C-17's land at Pegasus Airfeld, both located on the permanent Ross Ice Shelf. Currently, the icebreaker Oden is cutting a supply channel through the annual ice shelf in the exact same spot I landed three months ago.

LDB - Long Duration Ballon Project

2008-01-14T15:25:00.000-08:00

Weather ballons are sent up everyday, all over the continent. Three times a year, however, the LDB project sends up a massive weather balloon to circle the continent.

Here's a link to an NSF factsheet on the LDB project in Antarctica: http://www.nsf.gov/news/news_summ.jsp?cntn_id=103063

If your ears aren't perked, just think, "Its like, science in space, man, but without astronauts!"

Kite-skiing

2008-01-14T15:13:00.000-08:00

While I was down here last year, I met a legend named GA Joe that is big into kite-sporting. He took me out kite-skiing (Kite-dragging would be a more apt description) on the ice shelf a few times. Then, in the states, while I was cycling down the west coast, GA Joe was kind enough to show me the ropes of Kite-surfing. In no time, I was hooked . . .

Kite Sporting involves a big-ass kite (similar to what paragliders use, but smaller) that attches to a harness on your body. The strings of the kite attatch to a bar that you use to control the the direction of the kite and generate 'pull'.

So, this season, I bought a kite and had it shipped down here. All I can say, is that this is THE adventure sport - its like you're flying on the snow, or through the water - simply incredible.

Now, all I have to do, in is figure out how to control the direction in which I'm flying . . .