Et Finis?

To all of my formally loyal readers, I am forced to issue you my apologies.

I haven't been very good at keeping up with this blog. It was partly out of laziness that I did stop posting, but I also had a few other reasons which will go unnamed at this juncture.

Anyway, I would like to at least partially make it up to you by at least creating a "final" post and give you a run down on what's happened since the rugby game so many months ago.

If you haven't heard or can't tell, I'm off the Ice now. I miss it terribly. I made some wonderful friends down there and I hope to see many of you again someday. There's never a promise of that, especially considering the often daring and often long-legged wanderings of the Ice people, but the paths of wanderers cross more often than you'd imagine.

Looking back through my hundreds and hundreds of pictures, I remember vividly many fun times and amusing anecdotes. For a brief conclusion to this adventure, I'm going to post some of these pictures and tell the story associated with them.

Standby for the past...



As mentioned in a previous post, we had our annual rugby match with the Kiwis. Of course we lost, though there was some talk of the Kiwis cheating substantially through illegal substitutions (hard to tell when their jerseys don't have numbers) and of a covert early morning widening of the pitch.

Regardless of speculation, we kept with tradition and lost with only one concussion for the day.

If I ever go back, I'm joining the rugby team.



To give those of you an idea of how far behind Mactown is in some respects, I show you one of the supplies stocked on the ambulances. The packaging is of Petrolatum gauze (something I'd never heard of before the Ice) and is presumably for burns. If you look closely at the bottom of the picture, you'll note the date of manufacture.

No, that's not a typo. That's mint condition 1972 Petrolatum. Since there's no expiration date, we can only assume it's still good.



Pictured above is our lovely and vivacious resident Maineiac staring wistfully at the Swedish icebreaker Oden as she tears through what was once Ice Town. Since the Maineiac is a winterover and is still on the Ice making sure that Mactown doesn't burn down before next season, I'm pretty sure the thoughts going through her mind in this picture go something like this: "I signed up for fourteen months on the Ice...but if I can just stow away...and they have a coffee bar..."



Hawaiian shirt dispatch days. This is what happens when we run short on a dispatcher and they need a dedicated firefighter to fill in. Contrary to how it looks, I'm actually working very hard. It's quite difficult to look that good all the time, after all...

Also, note the evolution of the mustache as the season progresses. Yes, I know it looks bad. Though with the shortage of eligible bachelorettes on Ice, I doubt anyone there noticed.



Pictured above are some of my associates (our new resident Jano and the Seahawk fan) enjoying another American Night over at Scott Base's "Tatty Flag" pub. It's always nice to get "Over the Hill" to enjoy the hospitality of our Kiwi neighbors. As well as meeting interesting people with amusing accents, the beer goes for about $.80. With a shuttle bus driver provided, how can an evening socializing with them go wrong?



This may just seem like a nice scenic picture of water off of Hut Point to you, but to those of us who were on the Ice, this was a remarkable time. The fact that we had open water was incredible.

Open water is not a common occurrence in Mactown. It created quite a stir in town, with everyone going out to Hut Point on their off time to gaze at the water, smell (Yes, actually smell! Something our frozen town had a lack of unless it was diesel or cigarettes.) salt water, and watch as the Adelie penguins, seals, and occasional whale provided us with priceless entertainment.



As the weather in Mactown warmed up, the local frisbee golf (or "frolf" in the local vernacular) course became more appealing to the residents of the town, leading myself and my Captain, pictured above trying to overcome a twenty foot gravel bank in a cargo yard to reach the hole, to go out and enjoy the course.

With gusty winds and the weather possibly above freezing, we made our way through the extremely technical course. Each hole is supposedly a par three, however, it is in this humble fris-duffer's opinion that most holes are at least par fives.

The prevalence of pipe hazards, frozen melt pools, obstacle buildings, pallets, forklift traps, and numerous other industrial objects-turned-irritants supports my claim. However, the Rec office disagrees and has kept the course at par three.


So it turns out that Kiwis don't really know how to operate their airplanes when they're not in the sky. This slightly battered and broken extinguisher met its fate as the Kiwi [Plane that Shall Not be Named], sometimes known locally as "Voldermort" fired up and tried to leave.

Being ready to leave, they didn't seem too concerned about the big yellow thing that happened to be in their way, so they just ran into it bringing their departure to an immediate halt. Luckily, Voldermort wasn't substantially damaged (though I'm sure some Kiwi pride was) and later departed without problems.

As amusing as this was, it actually turned into a headache for myself and Tex. We were the ones who were to do the hardstand for its takeoff. After a quick race to the midpoint of the Ice Runway, we proceeded to sit there for almost an hour as we wondered why they hadn't left yet. Eventually we decided to head back and were later filled in on the details.


Pictured above is a shameless "hero shot" of myself out at the Pegasus Ice Runway with a C-17 on the ground. Another day at work, and another day in paradise.


Above is the USS Paul Buck at the Ice Pier. The Buck is the Navy oiler that came down to resupply us with several million gallons of fuel for the next year. This was a fairly big event as it represents the beginning of the vessel period of the season and signals the beginning of the end of summer.


As the season starts to come to a close, morale on station begins to decline. People are starting to wear down from the six day a week work schedule and productivity begins to slip.

As a result, station management sees fit to provide many people from across the station with a chance to go on a morale trip, more commonly known as a "boondoggle". My trip was to take snowmachines to the foot of Mt. Erebus, our resident active volcano. The trip itself is known as "Room with a View".

The weather had looked more promising earlier in the day (this was an evening trip), but overcast began to roll in as we made our way up. The views were still spectacular, but could have been better. Being able to see some of our gorgeous landscape was great, but the real fun was being able to actually go fast again. While we were officially limited to about 30mph, the group may have gone a wee bit faster at times. How fast? I won't say, but I'll tell you it was easily the fastest I'd gone since my arrival on the Ice, especially considering the 25mph limit on the roads.



A breakdown of the Mactown population posted outside of Housing. In short, pickings are slim for the gentlemen. For the ladies, the odds are good, but the goods are odd.

One of the big projects on station this season was the repainting of the galley. This was done both to reseal the roof which had developed a few leaks, and to possibly tell us of new corporate sponsorship for the NSF. Welcome to Walmart?

Interestingly enough, the paint being used is actually blue bed liner used in trucks. It's thick, durable, and being applied in temperatures well below what was intended.

Also, for a time during the most painting, people seemed unusually happy when eating in the galley. Most likely from the fumes that kept drifting in.


The M/V American Tern is coming into port at the Ice Pier. This picture actually shows it shortly after it impacted and bounced off the pier, likely taking a few icy chunks with it. With the arrival of the Tern, "vessel week" officially began.

Keeping in the true Mactown fashion of "if it isn't broke it doesn't belong here", word spread quickly that the Tern was busy sinking into the depths below. This was a partly true statement as the Tern had developed a leak in a seawater intake pipe for the fire suppression system that the crew could not effectively patch. After calling on the services of FEMC, the leak was repaired and the "sinking" ended.

Vessel week was a busy time, but also a time with limited amusement available. During the whole of offload, the bars are closed (with the exception of free coffee being served at the Coffee House) and the store is no longer allowed to sell alcohol. For those who had stockpiled in anticipation, it was of little concern, though for the rest of us we were without our usual vices to create minor mischief with.

Board games and coffee ruled that week. It wasn't that bad in the end, though the lack of the social aspect of the bars did create a bit of a downer.


This is a view looking down the bridge of the Tern. As offload/load neared completion, the fire department was invited to take a tour of the the vessel. It was interesting to see the insides of the vessel, especially one that had been built originally in Cold War Germany. Being a complete gearhead at heart, I could go on for a while about the mechanical aspects of the ship, but I'll spare you the details this once.


As the season came closer to the end, I was disappointed by the fact that I had yet to actually make it out to Castle Rock, our longest and one of our more spectacular trails. Pictured above is the second "Apple" (an emergency shelter) with Castle Rock looming a mile or so in the distance.

The hike out to it is long and boring. The day we went, the weather was good, but the snow was a little powdery and made for some difficulty tromping through it. The climb to the top is steep, but actually very easy as ropes have been set up to hold onto as you make your way up or down.

When we made it to the top, we could see everything for miles and miles around. Open water past the Razorback islands and the beauty of the Royal Society Range in the distance. It was certainly worth walking nearly ten miles round trip to see.


With the season winding down, and with fewer things for me to break/fix, I figured it was time to put together my tally for the season. With some spare time and a grease pencil, I marked my "kills" on the side of Engine 2, my truck for the shift.

Most of my kills were from breaking trucks in the harshest environment in the world, but the last one on the right was more of an accomplishment. I don't recall whether or not I mentioned breaking the "T-Site" or not, but I managed to do it from about a mile away. At least that's what the Captain says...


Above is my final revenge on the Seahawk fan. On a night much earlier in the season, he thought it would be fun to send a double shot of tequila down the bar for me. Not being a fan of tequila in the least, I vowed revenge.

Many weeks later, I finally made good on my promise. Holding in his hand is a beverage known as the "Four Horsemen". As you can guess, anything named after the bringers of the Apocalypse can't be good. It comprised a copious amount of several ill tasting varieties of booze. I enjoyed the look on his face as he drank it. A truce was called shortly after.


As the last of the LC-130s left Pegasus for the season, there wasn't much left to do on the final full shift out there, so the crew picked up their hockey sticks and went to work. It's amazing how easy it is to play hockey when you're living on an ice sheet.

As another interesting side note, this was the same day I drove Red 2 from Pegasus back to "The Rock" to be put away for the winter. It was a long, slow drive. The thirteen miles in between took nearly three hours to cover, and the scenery wasn't that spectacular due to overcast. The ride can be summed up by comparing it to staring at a blank sheet of paper for two and a half hours while being rattled around followed by about twenty minutes of sheer terror as I wasn't sure if it would make it up the hill to get to town without killing me (it stalled out twice and almost rolled back down the hill).


The season has ended, for me at least. Here we are, all stacked up in our Big Reds waiting to get on the C-17 to go back to the real world. It was a bit of a surreal experience. It didn't quite feel like it was actually happening.

The days preceding my departure actually got to be a little depressing. I was on one of the last flights to leave, and the dorm grew emptier and emptier with less and less to do. Halls that once bustled with activity were now silent. Friends were gone. The town was quieter, the galley emptier. I wondered where all my time had gone.

With goodbyes said to the winterovers staffing the hardstands, we boarded and flew away, on to find the rest of our destinies.


Perhaps I should have stayed?

Behold the Truckie

Apparently this is the effect I have on machinery. This is the yoke from the output shaft on the transmission of Ambo 2.

I am the Truckie, destroyer of Zetron and conqueror of calipers. Powerstrokes bleed in my presence.

It turns out I’m a destructive force here in Antarctica. After my ability to supposedly magically break Ambo 2 and Red 1 a few weeks ago, my list of victims has grown considerably. It has grown so much that Cap has banned me from going anywhere near the Oden, the Swedish ice breaker that finally docked at the ice pier several days ago, lest I cause it to sink or bring some other form of mechanical malady upon it.

Working out at the Crash Shack the other day, my ability to magically make things break came out into full force. During my time there, Ambo 2 failed to start on several occasions requiring jumpstarts, Red 4 decided to have indigestion and spill glycol, and Red 1 determined that stopping via use of the brakes was no longer necessary for a 70,000 pound tracked dinosaur.

The most entertaining of these, in my opinion, was Red 1 not wanting to stop. If you get bored by technical details, feel free to skip down a few paragraphs.

Following a hardstand for the C-17 from Cheech Red 1 needed fuel. Since we don’t normally move the Chieftains from their parking spots as they destroy the ice roads it was the first time it had been in motion for the day. As I shifted through the gears, I kept hearing a loud clunking that I couldn’t recall being there before. As I hadn’t driven it in a while, however, I couldn’t remember if this was normal as the Chieftains make lots of strange noises.

Pulling up to the fuel tank, I lined it up and downshifted to get ready to stop. After having dropped to first gear and then into neutral, I hit the brakes. Normally, this is where the Chieftain would come to a stop. Instead, it decided to roll a few more feet on its own and then stop. This came as a bit of a surprise, though it wasn’t a huge issue as the drag from the tracks and the level ice allowed it to come to a stop on its own.

Puzzled, and now wondering what the smell of burning brakes was coming from, I hopped out and dove under the front of the unit. Crawling behind the front pumpkin, I came to the disc brake that is located on the front drive shaft. Upon closer examination, I found that the front caliper bracket was loose (the cause of the clunking) and the vibrating action had loosened the fittings for the hydraulic brake causing it to dump fluid everywhere. Upon further inspection, I also found that the air brake used for parking was not engaged (I set it before leaving the cab) and that the pads had been loosely rubbing against the disc, causing the burning smell. Looking at the rear parking brake, I found the same situation.

After radioing in and letting Lt. Helitack know, I went to work trying to clean up and patch it. Absorbent pads took care of the spill and a wrench solved the leak.

Shortly after, Lt. Helitack and the rest of the crew came out to stare and provide their opinions.

After nursing Red 1 back to her parking spot, I was a little disappointed (though not wholly surprised) to find that the brake line had come loose and was leaking again.

A little while later, the phone rang in the Crash Shack. It was the Cap. He spoke with Lt. Helitack for a few minutes regarding the mechanical problems and then requested to speak with me.

Picking up the phone, I said, “Grant.”

He responded with “I send you all the way out to Pegasus, put you in the biggest fire truck we have, and you go and break it in half?!”

Before I could respond, I could hear the phone slam down on the other end. He had hung up.

It was worth a laugh. While likely at first appearance to you as an uninvolved reader it doesn’t sound like a good thing, it goes back to myself and the Captain having a unique relationship where we give each other a hard time constantly. It’s fun. He called back a few minutes later to laugh at me and then ask some more questions about the problem.

If you were skipping over the broken Red 1 story, please resume here. If you don’t want to hear about me breaking the Zetron radio console and the T-Site, please get off at the next exit.

For the next shift, I was assigned back in town at Station 1. As one of our dispatchers is on R&R before the winter sets in, we are currently short of personnel in the world of dispatch. As a result, lowly firefighters such as myself are required to fill in at dispatch.

This always creates some amusing situations since most of us haven’t really done much dispatching. This combined with the fact that very few real situations actually arise on station leads to various forms of chaos arising when something actually does happen.

Nearing the end of our shift, I had the pleasure of waking up a little early and stumbling in a half conscious manner down into the dispatch office to relieve Jersey, the overnight dispatcher. After the normal pass down, I assumed “control” of dispatch.

It was a quiet morning, with only a few phone calls from people looking for numbers. I sat in the office and watched through the windows as the rest of the crew swept the bays and did the rest of the morning chores.

After a little while, someone stopped in and told me that Scat 1 was trying to raise me on the radio for the morning radio check.

“Huh,” I thought. “How’d I miss that? I had channel two turned up.”

So I tried to raise Scat on the radio.

Silence.

“Weird,” I thought. I went and told someone to get Clint Eastwood to go back out and try it again, assuming that he’d already come back in. He went and tried, and nothing.

By this time, officers were now wandering into the office telling me that Scat was calling. At this point, after hearing nothing, I advised them that channel two didn’t seem to be working. A few quick checks with a portable radio confirmed this, and my status as the killer of the Zetron was confirmed.

Few were surprised when they found out I was in there when it decided to fail.

After a few phone calls and paging in the head dispatcher, chaos continued, albeit without me as I went off shift and went home for a safety nap.

Later, I discovered that I hadn’t destroyed the Zetron console, but in fact I had magically managed to destroy the transmitter at the T-Site. An enviable distinction, indeed.

Though the true cause of the fried transmitter was an unscheduled power outage during the previous night, I will certainly be remembered as the one who broke it.

Lastly, for any that doubt my amazing ability to create havoc and devastation just by being in the same geographic location as something, I give one final example.

Yesterday, an off day, the page came out looking for volunteers to help unload pallets of beer for the store.

Within minutes, off-duty firefighters appeared out of every nook and cranny to help, including myself.

The reason for the mass desire to help is simple: the store typically gives the volunteers free beer that would not normally be sold as perhaps one can of the six pack was damaged.

The beer offload proceeded as normal for the entire first pallet, with firefighters creating human conveyors moving beer from pallet to carts. The second pallet, loaded with Heineken, did not operate as smoothly.

While myself and a few others were inside offloading cases of beer and soda into stacks in the store, the rest of the group were out on the loading dock starting into the Heineken. The beer was wrapped up in layers of plastic rolled around the sides of the pallet, something that you’ve undoubtedly seen in various warehouse club stores such as Costco or Sam’s Club. Acting Lieutenant was cutting through the plastic in an effort to get to the beer.

As he did so, he came down to a layer that was held on by only a little bit of plastic.

He cut the plastic.

Now, what happened next I have pieced together from eyewitness statements.

Apparently, when Acting Lieutenant severed the last strip of plastic, the angle of the sun, gravity, and assorted laws of physics all came together and conspired to do the unthinkable.

With the last shred of saran wrap divided beneath the blade, the beers shifted under these new forces put on them. They shifted back, further back, and then down. It was a dreadful plummet. Horror ensued. I’m sure the terrified faces of those involved will never be equaled again. Case after case cascaded down out of control to the packed volcanic sands below. A sea of green cans and cardboard spilled everywhere. Hissing and spitting came from some of the cans. A few valiant volunteers dove in to save those wounded, doing their best to shotgun the ruptured cans, saving the liquid gold inside from a miserable fate in the sands of Ross Island.

When I stepped out, I was left aghast at the devastation.

I took pictures.

After cleaning up the mess (and having myself blamed for the disaster due to my destructive skills as a truckie even though I was a hundred feet away), we were each rewarded with a six pack of unfit for sale Heineken.

It’s a harsh continent. Sometimes bad things end up being good, though.

This now concludes the tales of destruction that have occurred in the last few days. I’m sure other things of interest have happened, though I can’t recall them. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that there is no sense of time here. It is five days until cookie day. That’s all I know.

Ambo Loves Me, Ambo Loves Me Not...

This one isn't mine. Photo credit goes to DA Drew (though I actually took the picture). This is our group out at Happy Camper enjoying some conversation and hot drinks at our kitchen table which was carved from the snow. To me, it's a little reminiscent of da Vinci's "The Last Supper". I'll leave it up to you if you think so, too.


This place is really starting to look like the Antarctica that everyone imagines. The wind has been blowing, the snow has been falling, and the skies have been gray and dismal. The temperature has even been dropping in kind, making has what seemed like the artificial summer warmth of about 40F turn into what it should have always been.

It's been five days since we've seen the sun. It's been almost five days since we've seen the last C-17 come down to the Ice to bring us mail and freshies. The people working over in housing have been going crazy trying to find places for everyone to stay because of these delays. (They also don't like it that we know before them when flights are coming and going or if they've been canceled due to the weather.) Many are scheduled to be leaving, including two of our own.

One of my fellow "A" shifters is going home. He'll be missed by the guys here. He's been one of our more entertaining characters since Denver, and it will certainly make for a shift in the group dynamics.

The other one leaving is our Deputy Chief. Due to budgeting changes, he's returning to the Denver office as our Chief returns to the Ice. Though I never really got to know him well personally (If I'm interacting with anyone greater than two ranks above me, it's rarely a good thing.), I wish him the best to returning to the real world and reintegrating with "normal" society.

Even though the weather has been bad and the Hercs and seventeens have been grounded, it hasn't been uneventful for us here. We've made the best of the time physically isolated from the rest of the world by getting some training in.

Ever since we left Denver, we've been making slow but steady progress towards completing our job performance requirements that are needed to get our IFSAC certs completed.

Tuesday was my Kelly day, but I came in on my off day to get my C-130 training completed. In order to get out to Pegasus for the training, myself and three others who were on shift at Station 1 piled into Ambo 2, fresh out of the heavy shop from its round of preventative maintenance.

We all piled into our antiquated Ford gutbox and rattled our way down past Scott Base and onto the Ice Road. As we settled into the semi-consistent rumbling and sliding down the road, we made ourselves comfortable. I sprawled out on the cot while one of the other guys, a Seattleite, laid out on the bench seat. We traded idle chatter back and forth passing the time. Eventually, we became distracted.

It just kept shaking. It sounded like one of the shelves wanted to rattle loose with the medical bag hammering against it. We thought it was a little unusual, but considering the composition of the road and the general condition of things here, it didn't seem beyond the realm of normal.

Apparently, it had begun to exceed the realm of normal for the two guys up front (separated from us by a window) and they stopped our off road ambulance. After a brief inspection by the driver, he returned to his seat and put the unit back in motion.

It didn't go away, though. It didn't take long for the sound to change, either.

The weird vibration returned as soon as the wheels started turning again. It didn't last long. Perhaps fifty, maybe a hundred feet. Suddenly, the rumble turned into a pop-clunk, at which time all motion ceased.

Turning to the Seahawk fan next to me, I said "there goes the drive shaft".

After getting out of the back of the unit, it didn't take long to confirm my suspicions. Glancing under the unit, the rear drive shaft could be seen pointing up from its hanger and its shattered yoke making contact with the belly of the truck. Looking to the rear of the transmission, the yoke on the output shaft could be seen spinning methodically along as it seemed content to just churn the air.

In some ways, it's kind of sad to realize that I have the knowledge to know just by the sound of something breaking what has broken. Guess that means I've broken my fair share of things up to now. Too bad I'm only really good at fixing the things that I can put a wrench on, and not some of the other things I've broken in life.

To continue, we were stuck. While we tried to get the derelict Ford to move on just the front axle, it didn't have enough weight on it to drag the heavy box end through the snow. Not that it would have mattered much in the end as it would have been extremely difficult to secure the severed rear shaft to keep it from flailing about destructively.

With notifications made to both the firehouse and Fleet Ops and with a short photo and movie opportunity of the damage completed, we entered into a standard "hurry up and wait" formation. We all resumed our seats (or makeshift beds, as were available) and proceeded to make idle chatter and guess who would arrive first, our Captain, Fleet Ops, or a Shuttle to carry us on our way.

My guess was for our Cap to make it out first. As part of our idle chatter, myself and the Seahawk fan took guesses as to what his first words would be when we saw him next. We both agreed that it would sound something like, "Grant, how'd you break my ambulance?"

After our chatter died down we dozed off again. A fairly easy task when you're splayed out comfortably in a warm ambulance that's not rattling down the road. About an hour into our motionless wait, I started to wake up wondering why the ground was shaking. Coming to, I noticed a massive red-orange Delta pulling up past us.

Luckily for us, Shuttle ? was kind enough to pick up four errant hitchhikers. We grabbed our gear and climbed up in the back and were greeted by a small group of Air Guard guys on their way to Pegasus. They seemed somewhat amused at our predicament. With the door closed and the rear steps folded up, we were off again, leaving our still running Ambulance II coughing and hacking for Fleet Ops to magic carpet off to the heavy shop.

After a slightly delayed arrival out at the Crash Shack (and having to run a gauntlet of snowball fire both from janos Diesel and Ghandi and our own firefighters), we met up with Lt. Grandpa and the rest of the "Deuce Crew" for our training. We loaded up into three of the Renegades and made our way out to the flight line to finally get a closer look at the Hercs we'd been protecting.

After pulling up, the crew chief from Skier Maintenance had yet to arrive, so we started the exterior tour without him. Instead of me giving boring technical material to you, I'll pass over it and just say that it was informative and interesting. I learned a few things that I didn't know previously and was grateful for Lt. Grandpa's expertise and knowledge in the field.

After the crew chief finally arrived, we continued our walkthrough of the aircraft and flight deck. We were given the chance to play with most of the doors on the aircraft (a significant technical detail to people who need to get in quickly during an emergency) and look over proper flight deck shutdown procedures.

A few things of note regarding the LC-130. First of all, this variant has the ability to land either on wheels or on retractable skis. The skis give it the "L" designation. Next, I'd like to point out that I was surprised by how small the actual aircraft seemed once we were able to get up close to it. Stepping inside, I realized how cramped it really was. With a few pallets of cargo and some people, the aircraft could easily become very tight.

Additionally, I thought it of interest to note how simple the flight deck was. As opposed to many of the newer aircraft that we saw in Denver and even in contrast to the C-17, the cockpit of the snub nosed Herc seemed exceptionally basic, incorporating a combination of modern glass cockpit technology and classic steam gauges.

Lastly, a final quirk that I noted was that each of the props, save one, had a small image stenciled on it. Two of them had an image of a fire breathing dragon while a third had a raven on it. After inquiring with the crew chief, I discovered that this was done to show who had last rebuilt the props and is comparable to an artist signing his painting.

Our tour complete and our thanks given to the Raven Ops crew chief, we piled back into our Renegades and threw snow from our tracks as we returned to the Crash Shack. Our training complete, myself and the rest of the group that I was with piled back up on a Delta of the little known McMurdo Area Rapid Transit system. Our journey back was slightly shorter than our ride out.

As we walked back into the firehouse five hours later as opposed to the three hour tour we were expecting, it didn't take long for our Captain to find me. The following is roughly what was said. I apologize for the use of quotes for paraphrasing.

"Grant!"
"Yo, Cap."
"I knew it was you as soon as I heard it. You broke the ambulance."
"How'd I break it, Cap? I was sleeping on the cot in the back."
"I've already got that figured out. Since you were the fourth one on it, you overloaded it and caused the drive shaft to break."
"That's a bit of a stretch."
"I know, but I'm still blaming you."

I turn to the Seahawk fan.

"I told you I'd get blamed for this."
"That you did."

That pretty much summed up my day off. Not much of a break, but I don't really like too much of one, anyway. Besides, very few fun stories stem from idleness.


Jumping back ahead to today, I have another brief recap.

The bells have actually been ringing today. By the time I finished this, we had three calls for alarms, one medevac, and an in-flight emergency for a Herc with an engine out (not an unusual occurrence). In short, it began to feel like a slow day back home.

I spent much of my day tucked up under both of our engines. I had been given the simple task to rattle can some bright color on the air reservoirs for the brake system as to make them more visible for new drivers as they can be hard to spot.

I, of course, went the extra mile on this mundane task and created a lovely silver and Cat yellow striped pattern.

Overkill? Absolutely. But it gave me something to do that required some creative effort.

As the day progressed, we received word that a flight had actually made it out after several days of being grounded. The Skier was going to Pole and returning with a medevac. This necessitated that an ambulance go out to Pegasus, pick up the patient and waiting medical crew, and return.

Since I was assigned to Ambo 1 for the shift, it fell to me.

After some last minute ambulance juggling (We almost put Scat 1 in service as Ambo 3), Ambo 2 magically reappeared from its trip to the heavy shop with a reattached drive shaft.

With a mild groan on my part, I loaded up and headed out.

It's a long drive out to Pegasus. It's even longer when you're driving alone in a truck that broke down on you just a couple of days before. With the radio tuned to Radio Lolo on Ice 104.5 (Yes, we have a real radio station here.) I slipped, slopped, and rumbled through the rock of the transition and the snow of the ice road.

After finally making it out and meeting up with an arriving LC-130 with my patient and medical team, I loaded up with four and headed back out.

The drive out had been long and fairly dull, though it was kind of a nice break from the routine we can easily fall into here. The ride back, though not exciting, was still fun.

I had an Air Force medical guy ride shotgun with me, and we had a good chat on the way back (especially welcome as Radio Lolo had ended and the canned pop-garbage of the Armed Forces Radio network had returned). It turned out he was from Guam, was stationed in Okinawa, and his missions typically consisted of two week stints to Hawaii.

Maybe I need to join the Air Force.

As the miles started to pass by, I came up on a Delta parked off on the side of the road. At first, I thought they had broken down. As I came closer, I discovered the real reason for their unscheduled stop. Penguins.

There were three Emperor Penguins busy waddling down the road. An unusual sight to say the least, and one certainly worthy of stopping to see. While the Delta was able to stop with its passengers to take a closer look, I couldn't.

While I was sorely tempted to stop and get a better look at the last bit of Antarctic wildlife I hadn't checked off my list yet, I couldn't in good conscience stop for a photo op while a cranky patient and tired medical crew sat in the back. Instead, I just drove by very, very slowly. Sadly, I have no photos to show for it, though the penguins were amusing.

After finally making it back into town, we offloaded the patient and finally went back to the station for the night. At which point, I began typing this up and relating to you my various adventures.

Now, at the concluding of said typing, a nice warm bunk awaits me in the gen-pop bunkroom.

More to come later.

Of Robots and Sawbucks

Smoke.

I smelled smoke yesterday.

It was an olfactory delight. The thin wisps dancing along the air currents to my nose left me in a state of both confusion and of utter amazement. It was a vaporous taste of charred wood, more aromatic than anything that I've had the pleasure of inhaling in about three months.

You don't realize how many smells you miss out on when the only odors that you notice anymore are diesel exhaust, cigarettes, and the sweet fruity smells from rooms where women reside. (I don't know exactly what shampoo they're using, but you can always tell if a woman lives on the floor the instant you walk in.) The frozen south does not lend itself to the odors of decay or the smell of anything more natural than volcanic rock.

Also, before you get concerned, nothing was on fire that shouldn't have been. The Air Guard guys who live in the dorm next to us were outside barbecuing with real wood. I stopped for a moment and enjoyed it before heading back in.

This was the start of a good day. A very good day.

Yesterday was "Icestock", the McMurdo version of that now famous gathering in a little town somewhere in New York. Our version, however, had far fewer hippies and a no acid trips. We did, however, have robots and ninjas.

The quadrangle formed by the galley, Southern Exposure, and Acey Deucey (aka the Gerbil Gym) formed the venue for our audio and liver celebration. A stage was formed out of three flatbed trailers and about half a jamesway placed on top of them to cover the equipment on the stage.

Bleachers were created from a flatrack (a shipping container with no top or walls on the long sides) with wooden benches added and an old Navy six by six with couches loaded in the rear. Fish huts filled in the gaps around the edges and were used for serving beer, burgers, brats, and coffee at our very own Sawbucks. (Sawbucks Irish coffee tends to be rather heavy on the Bailey's and a little short on the coffee. An excellent deal for a dollar donation.)

Bands were on stage all day, with plenty of variation in both style and quality. Much like any other venue you might go to, the better the band, the later in the day they played.

The music ranged from solo guitar to country to guitar/violin combo to some ska (a trip back in time for me) and the closing act of some funkadelic craziness that left the crowd demanding more.

Some of the bands were excellent. For the rough and tough image that is easy to get caught up in here, the musical talents of plumbers and bulldozer operators make you realize the skills that other people have. One band made almost entirely of janos who called themselves "Safety Band", spent their entire set poking fun at some of the Mactown absurdities.

Another fun even that occurred during Icestock was some between band entertainment put on by the wasties and some DAs. While everyone was milling around between sets, about a dozen brightly colored robots appeared out of nowhere and started dancing up by the stage.

After dancing for a few minutes, giving me some very entertaining video, a group of ninjas appeared out of the same ether that the robots emerged from. The ninjas, however, were far less interested in dancing as in doing what they do best; battle robots.

A battle of epic proportions ensued. It went back and forth for a while, demonstrating how evenly matched an armored cardboard robot is against an agile and armed ninja.

In the end, only one robot and ninja remained standing on the field of conquest. As they closed in at last for final blows against each other, a love story unfolded. It turned out that our remaining combatants had been hiding a secret love for each other. With the exchange of a pair of cardboard hearts, they drifted off together.

I wish them much happiness and beautiful ninjabot children.

The final band of the day certainly went all out. The band, called "Porn Spill", arrived in brightly colored costumes and with a little bit of attitude to go with it. They played a lot of hits from the era of funk and had the crowd going crazy. We were all greatly disappointed when their set finally finished.

Following the conclusion of the main stage of Icestock, a mad rush was made for the galley. The entertainment ended just in time for about three quarters of the station population to rush it in the last fifteen minutes of dinner. I'm sure the DA's were thrilled, though they did close before some had a chance to eat.

The excitement for the day did not end, however. After everyone flooded the galley, Gallagher's opened up for the night with a full evening of even more live musical talent.

The musical talents of McMurdo again astounded me. A bluegrass band started things off and left me impressed. I'm not always a huge fan of bluegrass as it can get to be a bit too twangy for me, but the ice version was quite pleasant to hear. Also, it's not everyday in Antarctica that you run across a mandolin and a slide guitar.

As the bar became more and more packed, the bands continued to become more and more entertaining. By the end of the night, you could barely move and whenever a song started, everyone knew it and sang along.

As far as I'm aware, nothing bad even happened following a day of music and drinking. Everyone was well behaved, and aside from a few bad decisions here and there, I think everyone enjoyed it.


Now, a common transition to the next day may begin "comes the dawn", but as the sun never sets here I can't in good conscience use it.

Therefore, I'll have to use the slightly modified "comes the next shift".

While most people were nursing the effects of their jubilant celebrations of the previous day, those of us on "A" shift were going back to work. While the weather had been fantastic the previous day, the winds had kicked up during the night shift.

As I stepped out of my dorm in the morning, I was met with a sandy, gritty, blast of wind coming down the road. In the few minutes that I had spent outside, I ended up with enough of the the McMurdo mud (in powdered form) in my hair to last me until the next shower.

Since it was a Sunday, the town doesn't normally provide scheduled shuttle service out to Pegasus. As a result, I was sent to check out one of Shuttle's vans with bead-lok tires so we could take our crew out to Pegasus. After picking it up and loading it up with all our gear, we were on our way.

Unfortunately for us, the shortcut road was closed. This left a long thirteen mile drive ahead, though I actually looked forward to it.

Typically, the most that I get to drive is the occasional mile here and there around town in the trucks at about ten miles an hour. It's a rare day indeed that I get to actually watch the second to last digit on the odometer to roll over and the speedometer climb all the way to the blazing speed of twenty-five.

After meandering through the pass, Scott Base, and the transition, we finally hit open ice road.

The road was in good condition with only the occasional wheel engulfing hole ahead. I opened the throttle and let that V-8 roar! (When everything is in low gear, engine noise makes you think you're going faster.)

The McMurdo highway system is something unique to itself. I don't think I've ever described it in detail here, but it's a fairly simple affair.

Every day, Cat Challengers and dozers ply the roads, pulling drags or ox-foot carts scraping and compacting mile after mile of snow into a usable road surface. About every one hundred feet or so, some poor fellow had the honor of jumping out of their nice warm truck, drilling a hole in the ice, and planting a bamboo pole flag which marks the edge of the road. Repeat several thousand times, ad nauseam, and you have a McMurdo highway.

Driving down the empty road is an experience in and of itself. The wind that had been blowing in town hadn't disappeared on the frozen Ross Sea. As I drove down the smooth white topped road, I watched as tendrils of blowing snow snaked and writhed alongside. In some ways it reminded me of whales or porpoises that swim alongside ships.

As the mile markers passed by slowly, the long, straight road with no real landmarks had a slightly hypnotizing effect. Luckily, I was able to make the turn for both "off-ramps" that led to Pegasus without just blowing straight through into a distant and invisible drift.

While the roads didn't have much to look at other than flags and mile markers, the scenery far beyond still impressed me. Mt. Discovery was out, with low clouds skirting swiftly along its peak. Black and White Islands were in full view, and provided me with some distraction (other than the classic rock coming from the radio) as I held the wheel straight.

Even though it wasn't really much of a drive to speak of, I still enjoyed "going fast" and actually going somewhere. I was actually a little disappointed when I pulled the van up to the Crash Shack.

Sunday at the Crash Shack is almost always a quiet shift. The mood is typically relaxed and aside from the morning truck checks, the day is spent reading, surfing the net, playing board games, and some movies.

Hopefully, after this Sunday, I think I've started a new trend in the Antarctic Fire Department. Since there is typically nobody in town on a Sunday, I promptly donned my Hawaiian shirt as we began our daily truck checks. I'm sure that if anyone had been in town at the time, they would have been a little confused to see me inspecting one of our Foremost Chieftains.

Later at dinner, I did receive some unusual looks and a few giggles from the staff in the galley and from the Air Guard guys who were coming on shift. I'm also pretty sure that I received more than one strange look from someone as I walked around between buildings in the snow.

After dinner, another one of my shift mates joined me with his Hawaiian shirt and wore it proudly for the rest of the day. With a little luck, everyone will be wearing them by the end of the season.


In short, that sums up a fun and entertaining two days of life on the Ice. I know this shows itself to be a rather abrupt ending, but the rest of the time at the Crash Shack was uneventful.

Also, as a final note, while I did begin the composition of this entry the day of my last shift at the Crash Shack, it took me until Antarctic Wednesday to finish it (lots of delays and a lack of a conclusion are the main culprits in this situation) and it wasn't published until Antarctic Thursday. My apologies on the timeliness of this, as I know many of you are critical of punctuality.

There is more to come. Far more. Enjoy.

A New Year's Not to be Forgotten

The "A" Shift group picture. All present and accounted for out at Discovery Hut with the exception of Polie D/O Walsh. Also, "C" shifter Cassidy snuck in, but he's really just an "A" shifter at heart.



First of all, a happy New Year to all of you. While most of you have just flipped your calendars over, we've been in the new year for almost a full day.

Those fortunate few down at Pole are coming near the end of their 24th New Year's celebration. Having all time zones in the world intersect under your feet certainly has a marked advantage to the party animal there, provided that you can keep conscious for all of them.

I still need to find out from our newly arrived Polies to see if it was actually as fun as it sounds.

As for my version of New Year's, it was a little different than I had initially planned.

Originally, I had expected to ring in the unofficial (bureaucratically, at least) real new year (on New Zealand time) over at Scott Base with those lovable and funny sounding Kiwis over the hill. Thirty-six hours prior to the big calendar swap, a call came into the Crash Shack telling myself and Caesar that we were to report at 0830 the next morning for "Happy Camper", our cold weather survival school.

Though we had finally gotten into the long awaited class, we were a little disheartened knowing we'd be missing the celebrations with our friends.

After getting transferred back to Station 1 so we could make our report time, we moped around a little for the rest of the shift.

The next morning, after getting off of work and getting all of our extreme cold weather gear together, we reported over to FSTP (pronounced eff-stop and standing for "Field Training Safety Program") to begin our class.

Our instructor for the class was an accomplished mountain guide who sometimes lives out of his van when he's not working somewhere. The man loves his nature.

Anyways, we went through the morning doing some basic classroom stuff, going over the contents of survival kits and how to avoid and deal with the cold. After completing our classroom work, we loaded up on a Delta and went out to the real classroom, the Ross Ice Shelf.

After getting out there, we went over some more basics of survival, including how to use camp stoves. After a boxed lunch, we went to work for real.

We went to work setting up everything a group of ten needs to survive a night out in the frigid Antarctica wild. This included the antiquated but virtually invincible Scott Tent, a few mountain tents, windwalls built from blocks of snow sawed from the ground, a kitchen with its own windwall, a dinner table (we're not completely uncivilized here), and of course, our survival trenches/mansions.

We couldn't have had a more beautiful day to be working out in the snow. The sun was shining (as is now evidenced by my very red face), it was "warm" by McMurdo standards at a little below freezing, and not too much wind until after we had built our initial windwalls.

Also, Mt. Erebus was busy smoking away, giving the local landscape a little more beauty as our crystal clear skies exposed everything for miles around.

As our day of official fieldwork came to a close as we lit the stoves to get ready for dinner, we had made a significant little community of tents, trenches, and walls that made our little village resemble something between a quaint snowy lea with field stone walls and a rabbit warren.

After more digging, we completed the survival trenches that we were to sleep in for the night. Some of these were far more impressive than others. One of our group, an ambition Jano, dug out a cave about the size of a small room, complete with arches made of snow blocks.

My own humble abode was far simpler. It consisted of a hole about four feet down and a horizontal tunnel which I could slide into with a sleeping bag. My roof was nothing more than my Big Red (our issued parka) weighed down with chunks of snow. It actually proved to be fairly comfortable and warm in the end, though in the future I would certainly make a few improvements.

After eating some dinner, (freeze dried meals made in the last decade which taste okay at first, but with each progressive bite become less and less appetizing) we all gathered around the dinner table cut into the snow. We then took a few pictures of the whole group together in a scene strongly resembling "The Last Supper" by da Vinci.

Following that, kite flying ensued, courtesy of Shuttle OJ and general and amusing banter was had by all as we awaited the approach of midnight.

At midnight, we had a countdown and proceeded to make as much noise as possible to ring in the new year. Apparently, we did a good job at it as we woke up our instructor who was sound asleep in his hut about a hundred yards away.

Not to be left out of the celebrations, he jumped on his ancient snowmobile and raced around our camp a few times. He then joined us to ring in the New Year before we all finally had enough and decided to sack out for the night.

Crawling into my hole, it struck me that I had never expected to be celebrating New Year's out a sheet of ice in the middle of the Ross Sea in Antarctica with ten other people ranging from my fellow "A" shifter Caesar, to Drew the Lead DA, to a bunch of beakers I'd never seen before, and a couple of Janos including "Diesel" (A fun and petite Asian girl. Another example of things being just a little different here.).

Seeing the sun still standing tall in the sky with the mountains in plain view with the residents of our snowy village popping in and out of their holes made me just lay in my under-snow cave in amazement once again before the delicious quiet and weariness took their expected course.

After a fairly warm and good night's sleep, we woke up to break camp. All of our group had slept in our survival trenches, apparently a Happy Camper first for the season (though nice weather didn't hurt us). After undoing much of our hard work the day before, we sat down to a less than delicious breakfast of plain oatmeal (harvested during the Clinton era) mixed with packets of hot cider to add some flavor.

Following this, we were again met by our instructor and left our humble town to be taken back to the instruction hut. We went through a few more exercises. For the first one, we went over the shortwave radio set. After setting it up outside, we were able to get in touch with both MacOps (the all listening entity of Mactown) and the South Pole. We were able to extend our New Year's wishes to them, and they to us. We also exchanged weather reports, ours being a little warmer than their balmy -37F.

I think they were jealous.

Following this, we went into the somewhat well known "bucket head" exercise.

Those of you that have seen the Werner Herzog documentary "Encounters at the End of the World" are probably familiar with this. For those of you who are not, a brief description follows:

The object of this scenario is to simulate searching for a lost group member who went out in the middle of a Con 1 white out to use the bathroom. We are given basic tools to try and go out and rescue them. Basically, a rope is extended out to its furthest point and people are spaced out evenly along the rope. Then, with the other end firmly attached to the building, we sweep out in a wide arc, yelling such things as the name of the missing person or "Marco" in a throwback to the swimming pool game. All the while, we are stumbling around with white buckets with amusing faces on our heads to simulate white out conditions.

After a few minutes of stumbling in our arc, I became the lucky one to locate our missing instructor by stepping on him. The day was saved, all because I couldn't see what I was walking on.

Following this, we took a brief glance over at the "SARcasm", an artificially created crevasse used by the Search and Rescue team for training. It made for an impressive hole in the ground scraped out by a Cat D-8 or another close relative.

Following this brief break, we went on to our final scenario of the day. We were given the scenario that our truck had caught fire in the middle of nowhere and all we were able to save was the survival bag and shortwave radio. Our goal was to set up an emergency camp with a mountain tent, a small windwall, contact MacOps on the shortwave set, boil one liter of water, deal with a simulated case of hypothermia, and otherwise not die.

We managed to get everything done in just under ten minutes. Though not sure if this was a record or not, it easily puts to shame the average time of about 25 minutes for a group of 20 to complete these tasks.

Our field training done for the day, we cleaned up and enjoyed chatting, napping, and eating lunch in the instructor's hut until the shuttles came to take us away.

Our day wound down with putting our equipment away and a brief lecture on helicopter safety procedures. Also, Caesar almost set the building on fire, but that's a fairly minor detail.

Wait, you want to hear about how Caesar almost set the building on fire? Is it really that interesting to you? Well, if you insist.

Before putting the stoves away, we had to go set them up and light them to ensure that they were working properly. Caesar, being a masterful fireman, proceeded to check one of these stoves.

Before further looking at the events, I will give a quick primer on the function of these stoves. Below the standard looking burner that you see on most stoves, including the ones in your home, there is a small cup that sits underneath with a fuel line that passes by before going back up to the burner. When starting, the fuel cylinder is cracked open briefly and liquid fuel accumulates in this small cup. The fuel is then shut off and the fuel in the cup lit. This action allows the flame from the cup to impinge on the fuel line itself to preheat any fuel passing through, vaporizing it. After this preheating, the fuel is then sent back through the line and sent as a gas straight to the burner for consumption.

Caesar, had the first step mostly correct, except for the fact that he didn't shut off the flow of fuel. After lighting the cup, he turned away for a moment, and didn't notice that the fuel was overflowing the cup and spilling all over the table with silent blue tongues lapping up.

As the table had a metal top and the wall behind covered in diamond plate (I'm sure this isn't the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last.), I watched, not particularly concerned, as the flame spread about the table.

After watching it for a moment unconcerned, I turned to Caesar and said something like this:

"Caesar. (In a normal and calm tone.) Caesar. (No response yet.) Caesar, the table is on fire, you might want to turn off the fuel."

The third time did it. He promptly spun around, did a little jump, and frantically went to work trying to shut off the fuel. After closing the valve, he picked it up and tried to blow out the large flame coming off the top of the burner, but only managed to spill more fuel and create a large but brief flare up.

After a moment, the flames went out with no damage to the table or the building. Though no real damage was done, I have now begun to carry the torch (pun intended) of instructing everyone at the firehouse to ask him how he set the building on fire.

Amusing anecdotes are already occurring as a result of this, and more are sure to come, though I won't bore you with the mundane details here.

After all of that, we finally went home. It was nice to get a shower and a shave after wearing mostly the same clothes for about three days.

Following that, even though I officially had the rest of the day off, I came into work anyway. It's hard to shake an addiction with firetrucks, sometimes. Also, when you have a good crew, why would you want to skip a day working with them?

While I had initially been disappointed about having to do it over New Year's, in retrospect, I think it was worth it. Who else can say they celebrated New Year's while camping out underground in the middle of a frozen Antarctic sea?

Ten of us can this year. I'm proud to be one of them.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Transportation here in McMurdo is something of an enigma. It's very much like that on again, off again relationship that most of us have found ourselves in at some point in our lives.

We find ourselves attracted inexorably towards someone (or something) that we desire, only to either be disappointed time and time again or left hanging out with the laundry to dry. Even though we do find ourselves stranded (figuratively or literally in the McMurdo sense), we are always willing to race back with open arms to that which failed us yet again.

It's a vicious cycle, one that creates a significant emotional drain on anyone and can easily cause undue stress or misery. It is something that is not desired, but is often difficult to finally end.

For the firefighters here in scenic Mactown right now, we've been stumbling along with our relationship with the shortcut road to Pegasus.

Since the closure of Ice Town for the season, all of our airfield operations have moved to distant Pegasus field out on the permanent sea ice outside of McMurdo. This includes our airfield firefighting operations which require the vigilant omnipresence of six dedicated, skilled, and often napping firefighters.

Since the closure of Ice Town, however, our commute has changed significantly. What used to be a ten minute, two mile drive to Ice Town in Scat 1 has now changed to a forty-five minute (on a good day), thirteen mile drive in either "Ivan" or the ever comfortable Delta (with built in passenger vertical velocity adjuster). This new commute is now the source of the "hate" part of our relationship.

Lest I have you believing that I've led you astray with my previous statements of love and hate, there is a glimmer of hope out there for us. There is still some love available to us firefighters who come back later and later after each shift. Our love is the shortcut road.

The shortcut road comes off of the south side of Ross Island, the volcanic rock that comprises the base for our home here. In earlier times of the summer, it is the road to nearby Ice Town. On the way to Ice Town, however, there is an Antarctic interchange about halfway down. This interchange takes you directly to Pegasus and cuts off roughly half of the normal thirteen mile distance and equally as much time.

We love the shortcut road.

The shortcut road is fickle, though. Her mood changes almost daily, and we're never sure if she wants us or wants us to never come back. Regardless, we always hope. Even with that hope, there is always one serious point of contention between us.

That point is the transition.

The transition, as its name aptly states, is the meeting of the annual sea ice (the thinner variety) and the volcanic gravel we call home. This meeting point is critical. The ice thins out in this area and is prone to melting, cracking, and the abuse of constant traffic upon it. Holes routinely appear in it as well as cracks. It is cared for and given as much attention as possible, but we can't stave off our nemesis, the sun.

As the temperature here has warmed in recent weeks to well above freezing (we reached a high of 43F the other day, warm enough to warrant t-shirts and shorts for many), the transition has taken on a haggard and beaten look to it. The holes and cracks have gotten bigger. There is water seeping through large portions of it. In short, the transition has become unstable.

We broke it off with the transition on the shortcut road earlier this week. We told ourselves that it was for the best and that we had just get used to things as they were.

Things as they were, however, are not fun.

Earlier this week, we loaded up onto Ivan, an almost normal looking bus with tires nearly as high as my six foot frame. We made our way out to Pegasus. Slowly. Very slowly. The road had been drifted over by the winds the night before and the going was difficult. Even with the ground clearance of a small bungalow and the motive power of a semi, we managed to get stuck twice. Our trip out was painfully long. An hour and a half (double the "normal" time) later, we arrived and found the off-going shift standing impatiently at the door of the Crash Shack.

We'd sworn her off, but now we missed her desperately. We thought that we were over the shortcut road. We didn't think it meant so much, but we were wrong.

As our shift, led by the much loved and aurally amusing Lt. Grandpa, wound down after a night of herding penguins off runways (and eventually discovering that it was easier to herd LC-130s instead), we came out of the station to be greeted by our relieving crew.

When they arrived, however, we did a bit of a double take. It was only 0900. We were astounded, amazed, dazed, befuddled, and quite pleased.

"How'd y'all get here so fast?"

"The shortcut is back open."

It hit home like a boxing glove full of nickels. We were back on again.

We loaded onto Ivan with a little extra spring in our step, knowing that we'd be home again soon.

As we rolled down the not-so-long road back home, we enjoyed every bit of the familiar road. All its bumps and curves gave us delight, and with Lt. Grandpa throwing in some of his tawdry anecdotes, you couldn't find a happier exhausted, hungry, and dirty crew.

The ride wasn't all smooth, though. Near the end of our journey, we came back to the transition, the forever rough spot in our relationship. Ivan slowly stumbled through the dips and slushy holes in what was left of the ice. As we came to the end, we found a victim claimed by her.

One of Shuttle's Ford vans (resplendent with huge tires and four wheel drive) had stumbled nose first into a weak spot in the ice. It sat there trapped, the front axle just at the level of the ice water below.

We passed by, realizing that it just wasn't going to last.

Now every morning, a crew of firefighters waits anxiously to hear the news of the shortcut road. We all know that in the end, it isn't going to work out, but we desperately hope that we can just give it one more try.


My apologies to those who didn't appreciate the preceding style of writing. It certainly isn't purely journalistic nor is it what you'd consider a normal conversation from me (perhaps not peppered with enough less than civil comments?). Regardless, it's something I like to do once in a while. It is a skill that I haven't practiced enough in recent years. Life has precluded it harshly, though with more time available here it becomes easier to have some fun with words.

In short, if you don't like it, I don't care. That said, the rest of this will be in a less dramatic style.


In other news, Mactown is changing. For those of you that thought Antarctica was always frozen and covered with snow, I have some shocking news for you; it isn't.

The weather here has been getting warmer and warmer lately. We actually hit a high of 43F the other day, making it a nice day to wander around town in a t-shirt and shorts. It is a far cry from the -30F when we first arrived. The huge drifts of snow that we had on the lee side of buildings have all but disappeared. Ob Hill and Hut Ridge have all but become devoid of the clean, white blanket that covered them.

The melt has happened so fast, in fact, that the streets of McMurdo have become veritable streams and creeks. The running water quickly gouges out ruts wherever it decides to flow in the fine volcanic grit of town. Icy McMurdo turned into oozing MudMurdo.

MudMurdo wasn't long for this world, however. As the snowbanks have disappeared, so have the streams. The sun bakes the ground and drives the moisture from it. What was once mud now turns into blowing clouds of grit that works its way into everything. The wind has found a new way to torment us here, though it's still much warmer than it was and it has lost its bite from the cold.


As far as firehouse life is concerned, things here are still quiet. As I was actually in the middle of writing this, we were put out for the call of one DFO'd (Done Fell Out('d), a technical term) over at the bar.

It felt a little like home again, with the standard dehydrated reveler who had felt the curtain drop for intermission.

Our response, of course, was overwhelming. This can be expected when you look at our exceptionally low call volume and resultant eager workforce. From a personal point of view, it took too long to get the patient loaded and I failed to get ideal positioning with the ambulance.

In the end, however, this was fine. Considering transport time was in the area of thirty seconds of reverse to get to McMurdo General Hospital, I think our slight delay was compensated for. All in all quite acceptable, though I wish we had a few more (non-serious) calls to hone our skills as a team with.

Just another exciting day in the life of the AFD.

Just two more items, and I'm done for this post. I promise. It's getting late here and my fourth cup of coffee is having no effect.

Firstly of two, I am now officially a Driver/Operator of the AFD. After numerous scheduling conflicts and some bad luck, I was finally able to complete my pump test this afternoon, clearing me to drive our fine pumping apparatus on emergency calls. My thanks to the rest of the Station 1 A shift crew for being good sports and not complaining about the layer of ice that coated them by the time we concluded.

I never thought I would actually ever say this, but I'm a wagon driver now. What a cruel end for the eternal truckie inside me.

Secondly, I would like to make a few comments on the most unique piece of machinery that I have ever seen in my life. I would like to congratulate the Foremost company of Canada for creating a Titan of the fire apparatus world, the Chieftain (Our Reds 1 & 2).

Much like the mythical Titans of old, these antiquated behemoths have been surpassed by newer, nimbler, and far more temperamental trucks that never seem to decide if they want to work properly.

The Foremost Chieftain is a marvel of combining systems together to make something massive (roughly 35 tons), complex, and amazing all at the same time. My efforts to create an inspection checklist have led to some interesting finds in my research.

For those gearheads out there, read on. For those not mechanically inclined, skip to the end.

Red 1, the bigger and more complex of the two has three diesel engines (one for moving the unit, one as a generator to heat the water/foam mix in the back and a final unit to drive the fire pump), a drive system complete with not one, not two, but fourteen universal joints, and a strangely concocted hydraulic (which uses aircraft hydraulic fluid) over air braking system that I still haven't quite figured out.

To our northern mechanical monster friends at Foremost, I salute you for making an exceptionally interesting and complex machine. I hope that design revisions over the years, however, have reduced some of this complexity.

Perhaps this is an overly optimistic sentiment.


For those of you that made it this far into it, I congratulate you. Hopefully it remained fairly coherent even with my lack of editing. Normally I try to do a thorough run through for grammar and glaring errors, but my motivation for the evening has dwindled.

Signing off from the most amazing place on the planet, I bid you good nite.