Over the last weeks, we've installed sites along the periphery of the Ross Ice Shelf. At Windless Bight, we drove a Pisten Bully into the spectacular sheltered corner of the ice shelf that lies cupped under the glacial slopes of Mount Erebus and Mount Terror. At Minna Bluff, we were dropped on a rocky peninsula that stands three thousand feet tall and slides into the ice sheet like a scimitar. Working at these these sites near such vast open space, the daunting empty horizon waits at the corners of your vision and subtly tugs at your attention. We've always stayed within five or ten kilometers of rock.
On our last installation, we plunged deeper into this expanse of ice. Leaving land far behind, we flew for fifty kilometers over the ice sheet, chasing the the seam where white meets blue.
With keen eyes, the helicopter pilot spotted the weather station anchored into the ice and began his banking descent. The familiar profile of a weather tower serving as a point of comparison, I realized that the long, streaking sastrugi that textured the surface were a hundred feet long. These low, sharp, wind-sculpted dunes are familiar in those treeless areas of the Rockies and high plains where winds cut across snowy expanses. On the surface of the Ross Ice Shelf, with no upwind obstruction for a thousand miles, these features took on broad proportions. With an eye to the weather, we set up and tested the ozone station with practiced efficiency. Without any solid ground for securing the station, we dug deep holes and buried 1/6 sheets of plywood as deadman anchors. Before we'd even eaten lunch, Lars pulled out his VHF radio to inform Helicopter Ops that we had completed our work, that clouds were moving on the horizon, and that we were ready to be picked up!
The wind took on a cutting edge, and we built a snow wall for shelter. In its lee, we dug a recessed couch. We sat in the full sun, protected from the wind, and ate our sack lunches in warmth and comfort. I unfurled my small parafoil kite and let it climb. We hunkered back into the calm of the snow couch and watched the rainbow streamers snap above the pale landscape.
Our kite attracted a Skua gull, which circled camp then landed and made itself comfortable. This tough, well-adapted animal stuck around--probably checking us out as a food source--for about twenty minutes. Later, I hung my camera on the kite line, started a script to take a photo every ten seconds, and let the camera be pulled into the sky. I captured this aerial view of Lars and Pat lounging behind the snow wall. The kite string stretches back to the dugout, and the weather tower and our ozone power system can be seen behind. Our two orange survival bags sit on the snow thirty feet away.
The hours stretched as we waited for a ride, and conditions gradually worsened. Clouds invaded our brilliant sky, and the light grew flat. It became difficult to make out the horizon or snow features. Even the tapering 3-foot monolith erected at the edge of camp--literally one of the tallest objects on the ice shelf--became nearly invisible. The snow cave we'd began to dig was looking pretty darn inviting! The temperatures and winds weren't a problem, but our isolation in this sunless, featureless, disorienting landscape demanded that we take the situation seriously. At Happy Camper, I stumbled around with a white plastic bucket on my head and got lost a couple steps from the building. Our conditions were comparably mild; however, the lesson stuck and the survival bags seemed too far away at ten steps. We consolidated the bags and other gear behind the wall and rededicated ourselves to the digging.
Pat reinforced and extended our snow wall, and Lars and I took turns expanding our cave into the styrofoam-like snow covering the ice sheet. Although winds were moderate during our stay, the cave could serve as our ultimate refuge in case of extreme wind. At about 8:00pm, it became clear we would go nowhere that evening. We were in great shape, but aware that we would be self-reliant for some time.
We'd pulled our two survival bags into the protection of the wall. Each survival bag contains camping gear to address the basic needs of two people for three days. The survival bag is a constant companion during field work--it is the first thing to hit the ground when we're dropped off by helicopter, and it rides on the roof of the Pisten Bully during each drive to Windless Bight. The contents of the survival bags are inventoried by the staff of the field center, then the bag is sealed with zipties and the buckles are taped: the 80lb survival bags are lugged everywhere in the field but are not opened casually. In fact, few people have ever cracked the seals on a survival bag. At this point, we simply needed those supplies--we'd been out for twelve hours now and would be out for at least twelve more. We'd eaten our food, drunk much of our water, and would need some rest. I snipped the zipties and cracked the tape, popped open the buckles and unzipped the orange duffel.
A mountain tent, stakes and deadman anchors, guy lines, and a shovel. Two midweight sleeping bags and two 1/2-length foam pads. An extra hat, faceshield, and a couple pairs of wool mittens. Fifty feet of parachute cord, a slim book on Antarctic survival (stay out of the wind and don't wander), and a paperback novel. A whisperlite stove, matches, a pot and pot holder, and 2 quarts of white gas. A couple cups and utensils. A first-aid kit and roll of toilet paper. Six freeze-dried backpacking meals, six chocolate bars, and a handful of tea and cocoa packets. Two bricks of Mainstay 3600 survival ration. All roughly duplicated in the second bag.
Our evening was familiar to folks who have camped in the winter. We spent a good amount of time melting snow for drinking water, and did our best to rehydrate some well-aged backpacking meals. We worked to keep our clothes dry and water bottles warm. We sat around on our foam sleeping mats and checked out the view. The wind carried tiny ice crystals, also called diamond dust. Light reflecting off these crystals caused the very air to sparkle and produced intriguing optical effects, including sun dogs, halos and a great solar pillar.
There was no sense in waiting for the sun to go down, and with snakes of spindrift curling into our shelter, we further consolidated our gear and sacked out. The sleeping gear was lean and targeted at survival, so we supplemented it where possible. Lars and I shared the snowcave, and he'd cut apart a cardboard equipment box to lay under our 1/2-length sleeping pads. We further separated ourselves from the snow with any loose gear. I pulled the foam backing out of my pack and laid on it too. We slept in much of our cold-weather gear, as our body heat would help to dry this gear out.
As we slept, the sun continued its low trace over the horizon, and a steady blue light penetrated the roof of the cave. When my watch read morning, I pulled on my bunny boots and squeezed out of the cave. The wind had blown during the night and camp was well drifted in. I dug out our gear and the kitchen area with the thought of making some food, but I ended up grabbing the cake of survival rations and heading back into the cave. Visibility was down to a few hundred yards and the wind was still up. The sharp, cold crystals of blowing snow stuck to everything, and it was impossible to stay dry. Better to hunker down for a bit! Despite some foreboding warnings, the Mainstay 3600 survival rations were delicious. These dense lemon shortbread squares were calorie-rich, easy to eat even in the cold, and quite satisfying. Not bad for a shelf life of 5 years!
The weather varied during the day and we stayed comfortable throughout. During one glorious period, we all spread out on the sheltered couch and caught some midday rays. Camp gradually refilled with spindrift. We had some beautiful sunny and cloud-torn skies, and some amazing flat light in which the sky, the ground, and our snow structures became indistinguishable in their uniform, featureless whiteness. We spent the day in sheltered relaxation, mostly laying in our bags sleeping, reading survival bag paperbacks ("The Game Players of Titan" by Philip K. Dick), and staring at the patterns in the roof of the cave. Lars and I took turns suiting up in our gear to head upstairs and check the visibility on the surface. To summarize our findings over the course of the day, the visibility towards McMurdo was poor. We were comfortable but not going anywhere. Lars checked in over satellite phone with MacOps every five hours.
Last year, Max made me a heavy leather cap, with instructions to felt a wool liner. I later added a padded chinstrap which pulls it tight against my head. The deep sides and a long back of the cap protected my whole head in the wind, and I wore it the whole time, including sleeping. The basic design was popularized by the horse archers of Genghis Khan and was later brought back by medieval serfs. Max must have been channeling those dudes when he made this killer hat. I fussed with other gear, but never had to think twice about the comfort or warmth of my head.
That evening, the sky cleared overhead and we began to pick out the faint outline of White Island to the north. We made some more backpacking meals for dinner, laid down, and began to drift to sleep. As Lars and I lay on our respective cardboard beds, illuminated by blue light of the cave, Pat shouted down that he could hear a helo. Lars suited up, climbed out of the cave, and cued up the radio handset, which he had diligently carried in the warmth of his jacket and sleeping bag for the last two days. The radio still had adequate battery power to communicate with the incoming helicopter. "Helicopter, this is Oscar-Three-Two-Four. We hear a helicopter in the vicinity of the Lorne weather station. We're wondering if you're coming to pick us up?" Affirmative. With the thumping growing louder, we tore down camp in haste and prepared for departure from Lorne. Within ten minutes, helo-tech Nora jumped off the helicopter, trussed up her braids in a bandana, and started stowing our gear in the gun tub of the Bell 212. At 11:00pm, it was Nora and helo pilot Scott's last flight of the night. The two of them complemented us on the snow encampment, invited us back to town for the night-shift midnight meal, and powered up the helicopter. The turbines whining and the rotor's shadow flicking across the snow, I felt my seat shifting under me as the landing struts grew light on the surface. I craned my head and caught a final glimpse of camp as the blast of our prop wash exploded the snow monolith into a dozen chunks.
We returned to Lorne five days later to improve a faulty communications link. Camp was much as we left it. A long, smooth dune extended upwind from our snow wall. The kitchen area had filled in somewhat, but as we waited for the instrument to cycle, I easily cleared out the bench and took a seat. Though the entrance to our cave had begun to fill, the interior was clear and the ceiling unsagged. The hard chunks of the monolith lay cast downwind from the base (still one of the tallest features on the ice shelf). We could have taken up residence again no problem. Great camp!
