Snow Blind

First, since I've left you deprived lately and the internet is finally being agreeable, a few pictures. They are in no particular order, though I will try to give a brief description of each.
Red 1, a titan of a machine, something well past its prime and ugly to boot. I actually enjoy this one far more than our newer units. Station Two is seen hiding in the back.

Your intrepid (or foolish) author, with a self portrait somewhere on Hut Ridge. The Royal Society Range can be seen in the background.

A view not unlike one I'm seeing right now. This was taken from the dome in the Crash Shack, a day after our last official sunset of the year. A picture can't really do it justice.

Here I am, back sitting in the dome of Station Two, aka the "Crash Shack", watching as the wind whips along and as Johnny Cash is playing somewhere below me.

Today was a nice, quiet, peaceful day over at Station Two. We were originally scheduled for several flights today, but an imposing low blew in shortly after we arrived this morning and has left us with virtually no visibility and no flights to stand by for.

Looking out the dome, I can finally see the top of Mt. Erebus off in the distance. Something I'm a little grateful for. For most of the day, we have been barely able to see the control tower that sits about fifty feet away from us. We started our morning truck checks in decent weather that rapidly deterioated. It started off with calm winds and sunny skies, but soon turned into near whiteout conditions with winds getting stronger and stronger. While I was well dressed and had toe warmers in my boots, I finally realized how cold it was when after kneeling to check something, my boot refused to return to its original shape having become frozen in place.

Shortly after we finished our truck checks this morning, MacOps (the all powerful weather observing decision making entity of McMurdo and its outlying suburbs) updated Ice Town to condition two weather. Also, anticipating worsening conditions, they ordered the evacuation of Ice Town.

Most people being sensible, they scrambled to leave before they were shut in by condition one weather. I watched, amused, as the crew from the tower bailed out into a waiting van which then proceeded to spin wheels attempting to make its escape.

Of course, there were those with more sense of duty than common sense, and we remained despite the fact that there would certainly be no flights today.

As we remained the lone occupants of Ice Town, we got to watch as the weather grew increasingly worse. Since we lie out in the open on a giant, flat sheet of ice, the wind blows with great speed since it has nothing to break it.

Nothing, that is, except Ice Town.

Even after seeing pictures of blowing snow, I never quite had an appreciation for it. The pictures don't really show you how it writhes and flows back and forth across the ice as it makes its way along. Another interesting aspect of it is where it decides to accumulate. While over most of the apron and runway, we have accumulated a minimum of a foot of drift, the areas around our units (all parked outside) and around buildings haven't gained an inch. A two foot drift suddenly ends about four feet behind our haggard ambulance. A clear channel has formed to either side of our big yellow dinosaurs. Between the buildings, it remains clear to either side, but a ridge has gathered to almost three feet in the very middle.

Walking out in the storm proves interesting. Aside from the constant blasting of fine snow which permeates every gap in clothing, the wind pushes us against the slippery sheet of ice at our feet. Stepping from around a building can prove hazardous, with an almost virtual garauntee of finding something pointed and metallic to hit your head on if you slip. Every footprint we make in the drifts disappears within minutes. Making it from one building to another becomes far less than desirable. Luckily, we have little reason to venture out.

Our home, the Station Two "Crash Shack", consists of nothing more than two trailers stuck together. We have no running water or toilet facilities and living space proves very tight for six people. We do have electricty, and heat. Also, we happen to have internet here, which for being as primitive as we are, is remarkably technologically advanced. We are warm and comfortable in our shack. The doors to the outside are the same as you'd find on a commercial walk in refridgerator. The windows have almost all been blacked out so we can sleep at night, and even a few pieces of forgotten and less than collectible art adorns the walls.

The galley is not open today. Everyone else ran for the hills, so no fresh meals this shift. Our fridge is well stocked with the best in junk food. Small frozen pizzas and burritos make up our menu. Combined with firehouse coffee and some old sandwiches, we're set for the night.

The afternoon passed lazily, with everyone either working away on their laptops, reading, or watching a movie. Any training that the lieutenant had in mind for the day has been scrapped. No walkthroughs of aircraft when their crews are back in town hiding.

Occasionally, the radio crackles to life telling us something that we already know. The weather is bad and getting worse, the voice says. Once in a while, the pagers go off, letting us know that another flight was canceled, only confirming what we had already surmised. We sit and wait, content and peaceful.

Throughout the afternoon, we wait. Often, one of us sits up in the dome watching the storm. There are a series of flags that mark the edge of the ramp in front of our building. Every now and then, whoever is up in the dome yells out the number of flags that can be seen in the distance. It drops from seven (the end of the ramp) to half (about 100 feet away) at times. We watch as it gets worse and worse and finally worse, until the winds start to relent. The clouds that cover us start to disappear. The winds persist, but with the sun we can see almost everything again.

Slowly, we begin to see everything again. The windsock no longer stands out straight as if it were propped up. Bit by bit, the scenery around us begins to become more defined. Ob Hill in the distance is poking its top out, Mt. Discovery shows its top, and as the clouds being to move on, Erebus begins to take shape.

The howling winds stop. All is clear again. Now to dig out.

After a while, the voice on the radio tells us that everything has reopened. We sit tight, waiting to see what comes.

After a while, I see the first sign of life back in Ice Town. Sitting up in the dome, I see a red pickup, surveying the damage.

Shortly after, a bulldozer makes its appearance. Soon, it is joined by more and more friends from Fleet Ops. Dozers and loaders soon scurry between the buildings, removing the piles of snow. A tractor is busy pulling a drag (a sled that grooms the surface smooth) up and down the runway.

We all pile out of our shack to move our trucks. We need to be dug out, too. For the loaders to move our snow, we need to be out of their way. You'd think this would be an easy task, but it takes more than an hour. Moving and repositioning five crash trucks that don't turn well is time consuming.

I have to give a lot of credit to Fleet Ops. They move quickly and get the job done. It didn't take them long to remove several feet of drifted snow that had accumulated over Ice Town. Within two hours, you could barely tell that there had been anything there at all. From my current perch in the dome, I can see that the dirty old Cats are already gone, glad to be headed home for the night.

The sun is now riding low over the mountains, making you think that it might hide for a while and leave us in unfamiliar darkness. The snows are still blowing, though with nowhere near the intensity of before. I doubt it will make much of a mess. Erebus isn't puffing tonight. Perhaps the winds blew it out. Mactown is still there on the Rock, but we will remain here until the morning.