Walking on Water

My salutations from Ice Town.

Right now, I am sitting up in the observation dome of Station Two watching as our beloved Basler (a turboprop conversion of the venerable DC-3) taxi down the runway in front of a gorgeous "sunset" silhouetted by Mt. Discovery. Sadly, I thought to grab my camera just a few moments too late.

I have to use the term sunset loosely for a simple reason. Officially, while it may look like the sun is disappearing on the horizon, this is an impossibility. Our last official sunset was actually last night. From here on out, until sometime in February, the sun will never drop below the horizon again. For now, though, I am content watching the sun kiss the horizon and make its way across a backdrop of mountains.

This period of 24 hours of daylight is not an event that is really celebrated here. Aside from the increased difficulty in sleeping in high light conditions (something we battle with blackout curtains and turning the lights off in the evening), there is nothing exciting about it.

Sadly, this comes with only one disappointment for me. As I am a huge fan of sunsets, I will be feeling greatly deprived. Sunsets have always been something to look towards. Symbolically, they often mean the end of a day, an event, or even an era. The added sense of finality that comes with a sunset will no longer be here to mark the conclusion of anything, except my final departure from this most remarkable continent in the spring when they finally return.

Life here in Ice Town is quiet for now. The fleet of New York Air National Guard LC-130s doesn't arrive until next week, and this leaves us with only infrequent flights. As such, the Ice Town galley is not open, making it difficult to get meals out to us. Also, with the exception of a few other people, the town is very desolate with little to do and almost nobody to talk to.

Today saw the arrival of another C-17. They brought with them cargo and about another hundred people who will now enter into the galley with the same confused looks on their faces as we did just a few short weeks ago. This time, however, we have a different perspective. We see them almost as invaders. We watch as the galley gets more and more crowded every day. It feels as if we're almost being overrun. I now understand the plight of the formerly isolated winter overs who stayed to watch our arrival.

In all reality, the station actually has more people that it should right now, as flights to the Pole have been getting canceled and delayed all week leaving many Polies stranded in limbo. The weather is clearing, however, and we're slowly sending some of our overstock away.

Additionally, we've had the opportunity to observe a Basler takeoff, bound for the Pole this morning. Also, throughout the day, the FAA Falcon Jet here to inspect the instrument landing systems at Ice Runway and Pegasus Field has been coming and going. They've been causing us some consternation as they don't always make a timely announcement of their arrivals, sometimes leaving us scrambling to run out the door to do the hardstand as they're touching down.

We did have some fun today, though. After doing a three hour hardstand for the C-17 (which we later found that we were not required to wait during their entire offload and turnaround process), we had the opportunity to take some of our vehicles out for some practice.

Our "Red" units are all very unique. They are each mounted on tracks of varying types. Some of the systems are far more effective than others, though all have their pros and cons. Red 1 and Red 2 are both ancient (circa 1982) tracked articulated vehicles. Despite their age and many quirks in both design and operating habit, they are very easy and enjoyable to drive. Their major flaw is that they are very slow (eight gears only gets you to about 10 mph) and they tend to founder in deep, soft snow because of their immense weight.

Red 3 and 6 are both newer models with the CAFS mentioned in a previous post. They are nothing more than Ford F-550s with their wheels removed and tracks put in their place. While they are new, they have limited firefighting capability and maneuverability. In fact, the old slime lime yellow Reds 1 and 2 both carry significantly more firefighting agent and can turn tighter despite being twice the size. The advantages to these newer units, however, is speed, and the ability to enter into soft snow and worse terrain. From a quick response standpoint, these are ideal.

Life here in Station Two is simple. We have no running water or kitchen. Our station is simply nothing more than a double wide trailer on skis with a coffee pot, some beds, and hooks to hang our gear. For bathroom facilities, we must run about a hundred feet or so to another double wide purpose built for the task. Food is even further down, though it's not available yet.

One last thing of note before I finally attempt to go to sleep tonight. Everything that makes up Ice Town including all buildings and the runways is not built on solid ground. My current home has a six foot floor made of ice, and a 350 fathom basement full of water. For the most part, you wouldn't even know if someone didn't mention it. However, every now and then when you're looking down at the patches of brilliantly clear blue ice that peeks through the roughened top layer, it hits you. It's not a normal thing to do, but it works. We drive 80,ooo pound crash trucks on it, and we land half million pound cargo aircraft on it. It may not be land, but it certainly seems like it now.

It will be strange when in a few months Ice Town and the Ice Runway are no more. When the ice becomes too thin, we will move to distant Pegasus Field for the remainder of the season. Shortly after that, an ice breaker will come and turn what was once a thriving town into open water.