After weeks of flight delays, the situation at camp began to feel a bit absurd. We had sat down to our final Saturday dinner as a 6-man crew: steak and lobster, the fanciest thing we could find in the freezer trench. But that had been three weeks ago, and we'd been repeating the last-Saturday ritual every weekend since. Paul was starting to complain about being sick of lobster. With the incoming crew still not on station, we took on many of their duties, setting up a big grid of tents, grooming the skiway, digging out additional cargo. It was a real luxury to spend an extra couple of weeks with these guys, to cook a few more meals using tahini, saffron and the nice stuff we had available, and to enjoy the isolation of the ice sheet. But it was a heck of a lot of work, and there was some bleary-eyed skepticism when we were asked to lay out tablecloths for the new guys.
Flight day. We suited up for standing around. Jason, Yuki and I fired up snow machines and hitched up tough plastic trailers, then pulled everything down to the flight line. Guy and Paul prepared the fueling sled and hoses, and got the loaders ready for forking off cargo. We kicked around the taxiway for a while, sporadically straining our eyes down the three-mile skiway.
An exhaust plume, on our horizon. Other humans, coming to meet us. We saw a big plane land, way down on the end of the runway, then watched it take a long time to motor its way to camp. It seemed momentous, long awaited or dreaded, and we just stood there staring mutely, awash in the sound coming over the ice. Paul stepped out to marshall the plane to the fueling area. It seemed really funny to see him standing out in the taxiway, waving his arms in front of this huge plane. The engines idled down to a thrum, and pretty soon the steps were hinged down and a guardsman came out, with his headset on the end of a long cable. He turned back to the plane, waiting for some signal of his own, then with a gesture of his arm, released twenty folks, who stomped down onto the snow.
The passengers were anonymous, streaming past in their winter gear. I offered a fellow a lift, as he was having a rough time moving around, and he just dropped down on this incredibly slick sled and accepted the ride.
After seeing folks to the Big House, where Phil would be holding court with camp orientation, the five of us returned to the flight line. Ostensibly, we were watching the plane take off. But seeking familiar company on the edge of camp was also a way of coping with the presence of 17 excited strangers in our normal haunts. The raucous, strange environment I pictured in the Big House was intimidating and deeply unappealing. The plane was struggling to take off, making pass after pass, and we eventually had to do something other than stand around in the cold. We all peeled off in different directions, aimless. By dinnertime, we'd showing folks around and enjoying the company, but for the moment, we were adjusting to the change.
On his way from the runway, Neely took this photo of his fellow passengers headed to the Big House. I will know all these folks in a day or two, but for now, they are just some strange people that will be sharing our living space. That is me in the background, heading right on a snow machine.
