Antarctic Christmas

Here's two more for you. Uploading crashed after this, but I guess it's better than nothing.

Myself standing in front of a C-17 engine out on the ramp of Ice Town.

Looking down from Ob Hill towards the road for the old Navy pier and Scott Base (the green buildings off in the distance)


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So, it's no longer Christmas. It's kind of sad, since that was something most people were looking forward to. Now all we have to look forward to is New Years. Over at Scott Base. With much reveling and costumes.

Drat. Life is tough here.


Christmas went well. Presents did make it down here, and I am mostly thankful for them. The can of nuts and a copy of Dostoevsky's "The Idiot" from my family left me wondering if there was some hidden message in there somewhere...

In a remarkably unusual turn of events, I actually dressed up and looked nice. That makes about three times in the last year, far more than normal for me. Nice pants, shoes, a new sweater vest, and a nice shirt all went into use for the dinner.

Christmas dinner itself was tasty. Lobster tails were available as well as juicy cuts of steak. Since we always do things together, the fire department also ate together. Everyone was prepared with a bottle of wine and the meal and conversation was greatly enjoyed.

After dinner, the group meandered over to Southern Exposure for some table shuffleboard and more good company.

Also on Christmas Day was the McMurdo Alternative Arts Gallery, or MAAG (pronounced mog). It was originally started to poke fun at modern art and its obscenely obscure and overpriced nature. While it still pokes fun, there are also many amusing and interesting exhibits that I wouldn't actually mind buying.

It was held up at the Carp Shop, and they went all out. They had constructed a giant seesaw and a massive version of one of those desktop toys with the balls that swing back and forth knocking the opposite balls into motion. I'm sure there's a technical name for it, but I don't know it.

Stepping into the Carp Shop was like stepping out of this world (or out of this continent, at least). Black lights, the fog machine they stole from us, some kind of odd noise band, and laughably great art rounded it out.

My favorite exhibit in there was the shirt worn by Shuttle Megan. It was made completely of laminated plywood and was actually very stylish, though I doubt it was comfortable.

It just goes to show you the creativity of the people here. Also, when this is combined with having to do something to keep sane, it doesn't really come as much of a surprise.

Following these festivities, life has returned to normal. Mostly.


Another thing that happened since the last time I updated this is that I have made the discovery of all that is good and wonderful about burger bar.

Burger bar is pretty much what it says. Three nights a week, the kitchen over at Gallagher's opens up and makes burgers. What would be considered a normal burger back in the states is a little taste of joy for the mouths of McMurdites. After weeks and weeks of sometimes questionable food in the galley, a burger tenderly hand made by our very own Jeff hits the spot. This, combined with my first taste of an unexpired beer in three months has officially made me a huge fan of burger bar.

The last and final thing worth mentioning of late was our little going away party last night. As the rotation for three of the people at Pole is coming to an end, the time has come for us to send off some of the guys we've gotten pretty close with.

Doing things in true firefighter fashion, the whole of A shift raided Gallagher's, tripled business at burger bar, overwhelmed the bartender, and in whole caused a ruckus that would've probably had us ejected from any place stateside.

It was a good time. We bade our soon to be Polies farewell. Then we saw them again today as all flights were canceled due to the weather.

That's the very short version of the last few days. I'm sure more will happen soon. Now for a nap.

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.

Recapping Our Latest News...

Another from my collection of pictures. The sign seen from the road on the sea ice leading from Ice Town to "The Rock" of McMurdo. Please note that there is no distortion of colors in this image. The ice really is blue here.




My apologies for not updating in a few days. I've been somewhat busy and haven't had the chance to actually sit down and plug into the network for a while.

I'm back at Station One this evening, waiting for the "big one" to finally come, knowing that it isn't going to happen. Half of the crew has gone over to the galley for trivia night, leaving all of us mainbody guys back at the station.

For as much as everyone seems to believe that the winfly and mainbody guys are getting along, I've found the former to be fairly cliquish when it comes down to it. The latter does not exemplify social perfection, though I'd like to think that we're trying to make the extra effort to try to integrate since we are the invaders.

Life here at Mactown continues to prove itself interesting. The weather here has been nice lately, with highs coming into the low teens. This has made sweatshirts acceptable wear around town. We are starting to see some melt in spots where the sun beats incessantly all day, though nothing too significant.

Yesterday, Fleet Ops went around with backhoes and dug the snow out of all the ditches that line many of our roads. I'm presuming that this is in anticipation for the coming melt which from what I've been told leaves "rivers running along the roads". The only irritation that came with this was the fact that they deposited this snow back in the middle of the roads, leaving six inches of dry powder that presented the consistency of sand when walking through it.

Town has finally become slightly less crowded lately. The Aussies have finally departed (much to the disappointment of many as they were exceptionally pleasant to have around) and more people have finally made it down to Pole.

Of course, with the departure of people destined for other places, that left more beds available to us. Temporarily, at least. After being delayed due to the lack of beds and weather over the last few days, a C-17 with passengers destined for McMurdo and other locales descended upon us today, taking another large portion of beds. This is of less concern than before, however, as most of these people are actually scheduled to stay for an extended time here.

While many of you back in the States enjoyed another Halloween this year, we were not left out of the celebrations.

Halloween is likely the biggest event that McMurdo sees all year, and everyone comes out for it. Sadly, I was working that day, but our crew still made it down to ensure the safety of all. The event is held in the "big gym", which is nothing more than a converted Quonset hut with a less than regulation size basketball court and rock climbing wall.

Soon after the party officially opened, we started to see the parade of costumes that made there way past the firehouse. First, it was a slow trickle with the errant walking banana or giant pair of scissors. Later, it became a steady stream of cross-dressers, vampires, and moose.

I'd like to point out two observations that I have made regarding Halloween. First, there are an inordinate number of men dressing as women down here. My personal speculation on this matter is that it is a result of the combination of the lack of women here (roughly 28% female according to my source in housing) which makes men more likely to do something ridiculous and the lack of normal social barriers (this place in unique in every aspect, might as well push the boundaries a little bit more). Also, the second observation comes from the number of and complexity of costumes that I've seen. Apparently, many people pack down the materials for costumes when they come down, taking up valuable pounds of their permitted luggage that they can bring down. I've never seen a place where costumes are taken this seriously before.

The party itself was interesting. The music was good, the costumes outrageous, and the people fun. The only shortcomings were the facts that I was stuck wearing my fireman costume and the fact that the entire event had the feel of a high school dance. (Not that it was a bad high school dance, but an odd feeling for a bunch of people ranging from college age to old.)

In other news, I finally was able to make it up Observation Hill the other day. I do have some pictures from it, though I haven't even had the chance to download them from my camera yet.

For as steep as Ob Hill appears, it is actually not a difficult climb at all. As long as you're careful to keep a sure footing in the patches of ice and volcanic gravel, it proves to be easy. There were a few spots along the path up that made for excellent places to sit and enjoy the view. Despite being a breezy +4, I stayed warm sitting on the rocks with my big red and blue jeans. From my sitting spot about halfway up Ob Hill, I was able to enjoy a spectacular view of town, Mt. Erebus, and Ice Town.

When I finally reached the top of Ob Hill, I was greeted with an almost jaw dropping view of everything for miles around. In addition to the previously mentioned sites, I was able to see all the way to Scott Base (the Kiwi station just down the road), White Island, the Long Duration Balloon Facility off in the distance, Black Island, the pressure ridges, and numerous other landmarks.

Also, at the crest of Ob Hill, there is a cross placed as a monument to the failed Scott expedition to the Pole. It presents itself as a rather sobering reminder as to the power this frozen continent truly possesses. From this cross, however, you can see everything that these explorers strove to discover. As immense and harsh as Antarctica is, it presents the perfect challenge to those who wish to discover the unknown. While Scott failed, the words on the cross, "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." exemplified this spirit. This is the same kind of spirit that I've found seeping through my own self, much more so lately as there has been fewer pressures to quell it.

With these words and an incredible view of the world in which I live, this gave me ample material for thought. My perch on top of the hill left me above everything within reach. Some thoughts drifted back to "home", and others to what the future holds in store. There is no doubt that I have significant changes coming my way in the near future. Many doors are open to me right now. I have almost nothing to really tie me down at this point in my life. I have a growing desire to see more and more of the world. It will be interesting to see what path I take, though I am almost certain that it will be down one less traveled.

Changing pace, my words will now drift back towards the firehouse. I don't recall if I've mentioned this already, but I've completed almost of of my required tests to get turned over as a wagon driver. I only need to get some pump time now and I'll be fine.

Engine 1 went over to the Vehicle Maintenance Facility today for a routine checkup. This put the newly returned Engine 2 in service for us, sadly, leaving some things to be desired.

Engine 2 went out of service several weeks ago when she refused to pump. Since pumping is the primary task assigned to an engine, this was unacceptable. After a trip to VMF, it was returned to us with a working pump. Unfortunately it also came back with a fairly considerable leak. After coming out of the gym from PT this morning, we found that about half of the 750 gallon booster tank had found its way onto the ground.

Not an ideal situation, for sure.

Leaking trucks not being abnormal here, we will put up with it until her twin, Engine 1, returns from VMF.

Also, just to add some extra confidence to those who think our fleet is in tip top shape with new trucks, we watched some videos of some of our new Red units having their systems charged with monstrous failures. For one, the foam system was charged and subsequently dumped from the rear of the unit straight onto the ground. For the other, the proportioner failed, leaving a poor finished foam mix.

These problems have been addressed, supposedly. It's hard to say for sure, however, since we are not typically permitted to discharge agent due to the environmental impact involved.

In other fire department related news, the first in flight emergency of the season occurred yesterday on B shift. An inbound C-130 declared an engine failure several miles outside of Ice Town. As the C-130 has four engines, this is not typically considered a serious event, though it did bring Station 2 to their hardstands in the event that something bad did happen. Our services were not needed, however, as the skier made a safe and uneventful landing.

Also out at Station 2, the first wildlife control call for the season came. An errant Adelie penguin waddled its way onto the runway, creating a hazard for both the inbound aircraft, and the all powerful entity that oversees operations here with distaste for harming the local fauna. While we are not officially not permitted to disturb the local wildlife, we become penguin herders in situations such as this due to both the danger presented to the C-17 turbines from ingesting our well dressed local and from the need to prevent potential screams of bloody murder and statements that we were violating the Antarctic Treaty.

Apparently a good time was had by all over at Station 2 during the roundup. It was remarked that everyone was surprised as to how quickly the little fellow could move when being coerced away from certain doom.

More penguin herding is sure to be in our future as the sea ice slowly disintegrates beneath us, leaving (hopefully) plenty of opportunities to complete my mission as assigned by my old boss.

As a final note for the evening (the sun hasn't gone down, but I'm trying to pretend it has so I can sleep shortly), I would like to confirm rumors that I have grown a mustache. I know many of you will be shocked, appalled, and just plain disgusted, but I have made the conscious decision to extend my facial follicles as much as department policy permits me.

It is not as raggedy as some might imagine, being much more full than the famed "Mexican mustache" that adorns many adolescents and much less creepy (this has been confirmed by others) than those stereotypically sported by child molesters.

Just to note, facial hair down here is the norm. As unpleasant as it would be in the sultry summer heat of Maryland, it proves itself to be nice and warm in the total daylight and balmy negatives of Antarctica.

That is all for now.

Ice Fog

Today, officially, began our first day of working regular shifts. As chance would have it, today was a "B" shift day, leaving myself and my fellow "A" shifters, on a day off.

As expected, this is a welcome break from being on the 0730-1700 town schedule. I spent yesterday looking forward to having a day off to go explore and accomplish some other tasks that I had remaining.

However, the Antarctic weather deities being fickle, I arose to and was greeted this morning with the town covered in ice fog.

Ice fog has long been a bane to pilots and adventurers alike. For those of us who like to defeat gravity, we fear the effects of the moisture in the air instantly freezing to the skin of our flying machines and forming rime ice. Rime ice is a particularly nasty form of ice that creates long, jagged protrusions from whatever it happens to attach itself to and quickly eats away at the aerodynamic properties of an airfoil, leading to the rather vertically accelerated demise of more than one aviator.

While its effect on aircraft has proven itself to be something to be feared and avoided, the effect on your average adventurer means that most activities that require extended periods of time exposed to it are limited.

As I have proven time and time again, I am not average in any category. There are certainly areas that I excel in and also areas that I lack in. As I decided to venture out in this today, I will let you decide as to which side of average this decision belongs.

Originally, I thought that my plans for a day would be a wash. I went about my day doing laundry, tidying up, and getting a few errands done. It wasn't until I opened my door to peek out into the usually quiet morning hallway that I was inspired (or rather, encouraged) to go out on a hike by Larry, a "B" shifter on his Kelly day. His ambitious intention was to round up as many people as possible and hike the Observation Hill Loop, climb to the top of Ob Hill, and then take on Hut Point Ridge.

Being a little bit bored and wanting to still do something outside with my day, I gladly joined in.

After grabbing all of the requisite ECW gear that would be needed (balaclava, long underwear, big red, knit cap, gloves, water and snacks) I trundled down to meet up with Larry and two additional fellow firefighters who had also been wrangled into this trip.

Even walking up the road towards Ob Hill, we could feel the chill in the air. Not only was the ice fog thick, but it also came with a brisk wind. By the time we reached the foot of the trail, ice was already starting to build on our big reds and balaclavas. This did not prove enough of a deterrent, though, as we pressed on.

The trail going around Ob Hill starts tamely enough, not being particularly steep or slippery. Unfortunately, as its name implies, it is a hill and this does change.

As we progressed, the trail steepened (though never quite to the extent that Hut Point Ridge does) and became considerably more treacherous. While much of the snow has already been blown off of the hill, the remainder had accumulated on the trail itself. Now, on your average trail, simply stepping to the side of it would have been sufficient to bypass the slippery ground. Antarctica being what it is, this is not the case.

The trail itself is never really more than two feet wide and its edges are bordered by steep inclines, one going up and one going down. A slip on the low side could easily mean sliding several hundred feet through loose gravel to the bottom, something obviously not preferred. As such, it was with careful steps and missteps that we made our way along. That is, all except Larry.

Larry certainly isn't the youngest firefighter among us. His hair is white and has certainly seen far more of life than any of us. However, he belies his age by being amazingly quick and spry.

As we progressed around the trail, Larry would constantly being flying ahead of us, maintaining a pace that we other three found impossible due to our lack of traction. He flew along the slick patches without ever slowing down, and climbed the grades with no change in pace.

To me, he is now Mountain Goat Larry.

Continuing on, we managed to keep on the trail and came over to the south side of the hill. The wind had not relented the entire way to date, and seemed to have picked up even more.

The trail on the south side was considerably more snow covered and maintained it's theme of steep drops offs. As we progressed along, I found it necessary to remove the craze of ice that had formed on my sunglasses. Seeing as this was a task that required more dexterity than a gloved hand could provide, I removed one of my gloves to complete the task.

Since we were still on the move, I didn't want to slow the pace by having the group stop while I reinstated my clarity of vision. While I was stepping and scraping, however, my foot found itself a spot that it shouldn't have. While I was quickly able to recover my footing and avert a long, long, slide to the sea ice pressure ridges far below, my glove (given to me lovingly by Uncle Ray) decided to free itself and try to make its escape.

I stood and watched as my glove began to slide its way down. At first it tumbled slowly, then picked up some speed. Incensed, I yelled some less than loving words at it, and it apparently listened. It became entangled on some white, snowy protrusion less than fifteen feet away.

Wanting my glove back so I could have use of my hand later in life, I went down after it. Though likely not my best decision ever, I was able to do it without skidding to the sea ice. I buried my heels into the snow (luckily it was much softer and somewhat less slippery than what is found on the trail) and half skidded, half stepped down to it. Retrieving it and returning it to its grateful hand, I made it back up with little fuss.

Though the trail remained steep in parts and slippery in most, we continued on our way with little more incident other than the occasional slip.

As we progressed towards the last leg of the loop, the ice fog closed in fairly well. It was far from zero visibility, but it could not have been more than 150-200 at most. This coupled with the white ground at our feet made for quite a sight, as we became enveloped in white, broken only by ourselves and the patches of gravel at our feet.

Like many other things on this continent, it made itself ideal for reflecting. As I watched the leader of our column fade in and out of the ice fog, it brought to mind some thoughts of home.

For a long time before I finally left, I wanted to leave home. I wanted to escape everything I had known. I wanted to leave family, work, school, and even my friends behind and start something new.

Finally achieving that goal, I find that I have not been able to cut off my old life completely. Some of that is out of necessity as there are always financial obligations that need to be met (as those often require the assistance of someone back home to complete), but some of that is of a more personal nature. In some ways, I miss home. I miss friends and times had with them. I long for someone to tell my stories to, someone who can't share the experience because they are far away. I need that connection to my old life, much like a baby is connected to its mother by an umbilical cord.

Into and out of the fog, though. I see my old life going into and out of the fog. The cord can't stay connected forever. Back home, they're having a blast getting stumped on questions at trivia night. They're busy at work intimidating the freshmen. They don't need my stories.

The trail finally comes back up to the road. The wind still blows and the ice continues to encrust our big reds, balaclavas, hats, pants, noses, eyelashes, and mustaches. The water in my bottle has formed a coating of ice, the candy bars in my pocket frozen as hard as rock, and my camera's battery frozen to the point of being unable to produce current (and the reason why I can provide no photos of this trip).

We decide to call it a day, leaving the other trails to be explored another time. The walk back to the dorm is easy and cold. The wind at our backs finally, it is no longer a battle to take a step forward. Through the fog we go, adding to our frosty crust, until finally we reach home.

Home.

The fog is finally lifting. You can begin to see things in the distance, though they lack definition. Hopefully when the sun circles the sky again and I wake up, I can finally see what's there.


That is all for tonight. More errata to accomplish and probably a movie with the guys before bed. My first real shift is tomorrow and it sounds like more trucks are broken. Hopefully they let me pick up a wrench and put me to use.