Felix Salmon

I’m not sure if Emperor Penguins are right at the top, or the very bottom,

of the karmic evolutionary scale. "Who would be an emperor penguin?"

has not been uttered infrequently around here lately. Abandoned to the loneliest,

coldest and most desolate ice sheet on Earth, destined to sit on an egg for

four months during the coldest part of the year, starving, only to be relieved,

you hope, by a fattened mate who brings up the chick whereupon you have to trek

for days, weeks maybe, to find open water and seek food, which you then bring

back to your mate – and reinitiate thecycle. By any beasts’ standards

it has been cold around here lately and it boggles the mind to think that any

penguins survive at all, let alone chicks. It’s a hard life.

To me, however, they are the epitome of Zen (about which I know very little).

Patient, curious, animated, interested but apparently never hassled, never in

a rush, strong, calm, self-aware while also totally dependant on the community

for survival. I like them. They don’t, it must be said, strike me as being particularly

intelligent – but that really doesn’t matter, they don’t seem unhappy,

either. The Adelies last summer were forever squawking and chirruping, placing

themselves right at the foot of the lab steps and then getting in a fluster

if you came anywhere near them. The Emperors seem more aloof. Upon seeing a

gaggle of humans dangling down the ice cliff, a greeting party wanders towards

us, curious about visitors. Walking in single file, looking in front and behind

as though to check that they haven’t been mislead and are suddenly on their

own, they will walk right up to you. Once their curiosity is satiated, or you

start walking towards the colony, they turn around and wander back.

There is a lot of anthropomorphising going on here I know, but it’s difficult

not to. They walk on two feet, look you straight in the eye if you kneel (when

they are about chest or chin height), they chat and coo, a cross between a rattle

and an eerie echo – and their cry is returned by companions. These curious

ones seem to be a year or two old: fully grown but still too young to breed,

adolescents to us. They walk around in groups, fight with each other and then

snuggle up for warmth, show their chests off and rattle their heads and then,

for no apparent reason, wander off somewhere else. They show no fear and as

a spectator I did not feel that I was interfering with nature. I am undoubtedly

wrong. I had no desire to get overly close or touch them, if for no other reason

than that I was wearing such huge mitts that there would be no point and there

was no way I was going to reveal bare skin to the elements even for the touch

of penguin feathers, but also, because if you wait a short while, they come

up to you. As curious as us. They, too, are living on a fairly monotonous ice

shelf and are happy to see something new for a change. These are our closest

neighbours.

Now the huddle, that’s something else entirely. As you probably know, Emperors

huddle to stay warm in winter. I had imagined a huge circular group with some

kind of re-shuffle order so the ones in the middle eventually move to the edges

and no-one gets too cold for too long on the outside. I don’t know why, but

I had imagined order. By now, I should know that nature exhibits order using

chaos. Through a chaotic system, the most perfect solution to any problem will

emerge. The penguin huddle was entropy embodied. No circle, no order, a number

of large clumps. The ones in the middle roasty toasty, the ones on the outside

burying their heads deep into the penguins in front, using that beautiful rounded

back as a shield against the wind. Layer upon layer of buried-headed penguins

like the centre of a sunflower.

At some point, the penguins on the outside get cold, or bored, or, I don’t

know, it doesn’t matter, the point is, they decide to leave. So they wander

off. And, I guess, that means the next layer gets cold. Heads pop up, necks

stretch, lots of hustling and bustling, the odd peck, and before you know it

the one-time calm huddle of heat generation has become a squawking, shrieking

flurry of bristling heads shaking and pushing, confusion, ripples of movement

in every which direction. I tried to watch for long enough to see what happened

next but it wasn’t entirely obvious. I thought the ones on the outside would

start forming their own huddle with them at the core but more often than not

they just walked off, single file, to apparently nowhere. A clown-like walk

too since most were shuffling on their heels with their toes in the air, making

sure the egg on their feet didn’t touch the ice. Sometimes one would bend down

and rotate the egg. A couple of them could be seen regurgitating food and stretching

to their toes whereupon a tiny chick would appear from under the belly flap

and stick it’s head in the parent’s mouth. Chirrup chirrup chirrup, you could

hear them cheeping. It was beautiful. Thousands of them probably, clustered

in groups of a few hundred, steam coming off the middle, heads buried on the

outside. All calling, all doing their thing.

I’ve had an incredible week. Incredibly full, by my winter hibernation standards.

I had forgotten what it was to be truly busy, at different times rushed, excited,

stressed, exhausted, responsible, cold, high, low, confused and rejuvenated.

I had forgotten what it was to multi-task. I am not looking forward to returning

to ‘normal life’, whatever that is, I’m not looking forward to the summer season

even. I’m not excited by the prospect of mental stimulation and the buzz of

activity that I thrived on previously. It will come though, as I acclimatise

to progressively more sun and more activity, when I drink my last bottle of

wine, eat my last good quality chocolate bar, realise the prospect of fresh

fruit is only a few weeks, rather than months away. Remind myself that with

the first plane comes first post. With all of these things will my enthusiasm

return. And probably my energy as well. I think this week was just a shock to

the system.

It is well documented that August is often the hardest month here and I, who

thought I was breezing through this whole Antarctic wintering thing, am starting

to understand why. We are running out of things, I ate the last real apple on

my birthday a month ago. Tinned potatoes, carrots and beans are, to my palate,

fresh veg. All my clothes are tattered and holey, my hair has been dyed and

re-dyed and now looks like it has a washed out blue rinse – it looks a

bit how I feel. For some people, August is hard because the excitement of mid-winter

is over but it is still months before the first new people arrive. For me, August

has been hard because I’m sad to see the darkness go. I’m already forgetting

what it looked like. It was never this dark in the middle of the day was it?,

I found myself asking Frank yesterday. Even for me, it’s difficult to conceive

how little we could see. And I miss those beautiful, beautiful red stripes on

the horizon at 2pm. Now at two the sun is well above the horizon, the world

is light and white, I can see all the way to the lab and far beyond. On a good

day. On a bad day I can’t see beyond my feet but it’s still white-mauve-cotton-wool-not-seeing

as opposed to pitch dark not seeing. I couldn’t see a thing today, I don’t know

why, but I was glad to still be falling over my feet and into unexpected valleys

in the sastrugi. At night time Orion appears only to the night watchman but

Scorpio still twirls his pincers around my head. The occasional aurora mists

the sky with green. I love my darkness.

Anyway, I think the light has been a shock to the system. It’s colder than

we have ever yet experienced (approaching -50C at times) but the light misleads

you into spending much more time outside, doing all those long-awaited jobs,

taking your [outer] mitts off to take a photo for longer than you ever would

have in June. Without question work outside is a lot easier if you can see what

you’re doing, even if it’s cold – so we’ve been doing these things, and

probably over-doing these things, not realising that we’ve just been jolted

out of hibernation. In addition, where we used, during autumn, to stop activity

after dark, we now see this as no hindrance, we know where the torches are kept

and which clothes to wear in a gale. Everyone perhaps has been doing just that

little bit more.

For me, the return of the sun means the start of spring-time chemistry. This

is when it all kicks off. This is, if I’m brutally honest, the reason why I

am, or my job is, here. The loss of a few weeks’ data in mid-winter wouldn’t

be heart-breaking. A similar loss during spring-time would be quite upsetting

for many. When the sun rises, all those chemicals that have been pooling in

the snow and at the surface are activated, photolysed, react with photolysis

products, come out of the snow, go into the snow, blow in from the coast, fly

in from the plateau… different molecules in different air masses that all

react and interact differently once they are zapped by the sun. This is what

has not been studied before and why we are here.

When ozone drops and air comes in from the coast, we fly a blimp, we take height

profiles, we align the telescope and try to measure halogens in the air. On

calm days, we dig a pit and take samples of snow from different depths. On days

when the air comes in from the east, we ensure the inlets are clear and compare

chemistry in the snow with that in the air. My tank of helium ran low a few

days ago and I haven’t been able to change it since the temperature in the gas

store has been below safety limits. Today the temperature warmed up but I found

I wasn’t strong enough to do this job on my own and will have to take a companion

with me to help tomorrow. All this time, I feel the loss of data keenly.

On Tuesday morning at 3am I was woken by Steph, who was on night-shift, because

the chemical and meteorological conditions we had been looking for were ideal

for a blimp flight. It was 3am and our probe wasn’t yet tested to perfection

so we decided to wait until the morning. Still, I got up for a few hours to

make some preparations in case we decided to fly. At 9am conditions were still

looking good. At 10am I was told that a penguin trip, which I was meant to be

on, was going ahead. We’ve been waiting for these for weeks but until now been

prohibited by either temperatures that are too low for driving the vehicles

or winds too high to abseil down the ice cliffs. What a conundrum!

I went on the trip, I had an amazing time. The minute we crossed the perimeter

drum line I felt the burden of base life dissolve, evaporate, off my shoulders.

It was so good to get out! Only then did I realise how captive we have been

here, kept within a circular perimeter defined by empty oil drums and flags,

5km round and 2km wide. We were off to the coast! It felt great. An hour later

we were there. On the cliffs! A different view, the ice, a sea-lead in the distance,

sun, clouds, beautiful beautiful coast. This was enough for me, I didn’t even

need to see the penguins! But there they were, a seemingly small huddle on the

ice below. Jingly janglies, harnesses, crampons, ice axes, hats, balaclavas,

cameras, hot ribena, backpacks and sausages later and I’m abseiling down the

cliff. I love abseiling, I love dangling off ropes! Look at me, this is great!!!

Once everyone was down, we spent a couple of hours on the ice, hanging out

with the penguins, getting cold but never bored, taking photos, just sitting

with them, walking around, flapping our arms as they flap their wings, calling

back at them. When the time came to leave, people harnessed and clipped again,

climbed up the ice wall, chose to either pull themselves up a rope mechanically

or use a ladder for the last bit. I was going for the ladder. At the last minute,

I ended up on the alternative route. I don’t know why but I suspect my pride

and big gob had something to do with it. It was a stupid decision. Everyone

else had gone, it was -37C, I was cold and clueless. I had two crampons on my

feet, two ice axes in my hands, two jumars on the rope (for pulling myself up),

hard helmet, various caribeners and jangly things on my belt and a great big

backpack pulling me backwards. I have never, except in practices, had to use

jumars, ice axes or crampons. (You will recall that for my pre-winter field

training trip I spent 9 days in a tent due to bad weather.) I knew, and the

people with me knew I knew, how all these thing worked. But my brain failed

me, my fingers cried with pain of cold, my pride held back tears and my legs

started to feel a little less comfortable hanging off a rope, dangling in mid-air.

In retrospect it was a good experience, it is always important to know your

limits and appreciate the skill levels of people around you. At the time, I

felt like I was being pushed to a limit I hadn’t ever yet experienced, meeting

a part of myself that was so true, so deep, so cutting to my soul, I met a person

who was at one moment angry and proud and arrogant and livid while a second

later she was swinging upside down, laughing with the sun and penguins, giggling

at her fate and her situation, being hauled over the overhang by her ever-reliant

buddies upstairs.

And then the angry one kicked in again: "STOP IT, STOP IT, STO—–P,

YOU BASTARDS!!! I can do it on my own damn you!" I was screaming but they

couldn’t hear me and they were getting cold too. It was like being utterly alive

and learning who you are at the core. I know I could have got out on my own

but it might have taken a while. I had figured the system out just before they

haulked me over the edge. But I also know that they made the right call because

they didn’t know my situation and they themselves were getting cold. And that

had been the deal from the start: "Don’t worry, Rhian, give it a go, and

if you can’t do it, we’ll Z-pulley you out." There was never any danger

I wouldn’t make it: had that been the case, I would have gone the ladder route.

I am determined to return, and next time, I’ll get out on my own.

Trundle, trundle. The cosy journey home. Tired and happy people. All these

new experiences. See what the sunshine brings us?! When we get home, it all

floods back. The chemistry, the met, the blimp – o god, conditions

were ideal… o no, I shouldn’t have gone… no, I went, enjoy it, remember

it. But conditions were still holding and there was no reason we couldn’t do

a flight that night.

That night I realised for the first time how truly committed people here are.

We worked from 6:30 pm to 2:30 am inflating the blimp, working on the probes,

winching it up, winching it down, downloading data. It was seriously, dangerously,

cold and everyone was already tired when we began. Plus, the nature of the task

meant that the helpers were outside in the cold for many more hours than I was.

Some people helped out to help their friends, others were interested in the

blimp in and of itself, but many I discovered later were doing this for the

science. This is why we’re here, I was told, and if you tell us this is cutting

edge stuff and important science, then we’ll pull out all the stops to help

you do it. It was incredibly humbling. I often feel like our work here is an

excuse to have an Antarctic presence, but this week I have realised that science

is still a purpose for those of us living here. It is a great honour to have

this opportunity and we should make the absolute most of it. All aspects of

being here.

Life is very simple here, it is remarkably free of conflict. It is rare that

I have to make a decision of the type you make hundreds of during a normal day

at home. Sometimes conflicts of interest arise: penguins or molecules, melt-tank

or machines, scrub-out or pit-digging, dinner or the lab – but the right

choice usually becomes clear pretty quickly. We are all here to do our jobs

but it is also in our jobs’ best interest for us to remain sane and happy. Plus,

ultimately, we are all on call 24-7. Try as we might to differentiate between

communal duties, work and recreation, they are all just different sides of the

same round fruit. Last week the plumber had a virtually sleepless week because

the sewage pipes kept bursting in the cold. And since he couldn’t fix the problem

alone, most of the technical staff dropped everything to help him as well. Friday

night I stayed in the caboose with Frank. Saturday night I was woken by the

night watchman because a science alarm was going off – that was rare,

usually it’s the plumber, electrician, Piggott engineer or generator mechanic

who gets woken. Ultimately everything we do here is one and the same thing,

there is no differentiation. It is all part of wintering at Halley.

had brunch with my friend Geoff today, and he turned to me and asked: "does

by the fabulousness of where she is?", Felix told me a few days ago,

and I’ve been pondering it ever since. I do and I don’t. I do, and then I find

myself doing so and immediately make an effort to remind myself of where I am.

It’s a beauty of being here, I guess – even in the hardest of moments

or when I’m at an all-time low, I think, this is a part of it. I came here for

this too.It’s a commitment that’s more than woweee.

Anyway, I’m feeling a bit blah right now so, in Geoff’s honour, I figured I

should write a blog to show that I’m not on cloud cuckoo the whole time. Thing

is, the reading might as a result be that much more bland but at least you won’t

be expecting me to be as exciting as my stories are once I return.

Believe you me, there’s nothing I want more sometimes than to just walk down

the streets of London (it has to be both big and familiar to fulfil my needs),

totally anonymous, shooting the shit with my mate Steve as we amble from pub

to pub – in the rain. I’d do anything for that right now. The rainier

and greyer the better. Totally unfabulous (the weather that is, not the company!).

See, if Toni was there, we’d be dancing in the rain and if Anna was there she’d

be visiting from Australia so it wouldn’t be just another day. It’s never ‘just

another day’ though is it, wherever you are? Shit. And then I realise I sound

like some fluffy-bunny-spewing evangelist drunk on the beauty of the world when

all I really truly want is another blah day with nothing spectacular happening

at all. Just once in a while – enough to get my breath back and discover

my thirst for adventure again.

So what gets me down? Not the weather. It’s glorious when it’s windy, sunny,

dark, still, you name it. This is Antarctica, and Antarctica here is described

by weather since there are no other physical features to speak of around here.

The sastrugi’s getting awful big these days, mind you (oh yeah, and it’s nice

to not have to add a glossary to the end of everything I write or say!).

The work? Yeah, the work gets me down. But when it does I try to find something

interesting to do to wake me up. There’s so many opportunities – so many

other jobs to share a part of. In the last couple of weeks, for instance, I

have helped with the gash run, when we bury our waste food; helped jack the

buildings at -50 subjective (and got white fingertips as thanks); helped the

gennie mech with flubbering, when the big bag of fuel under the base gets refilled

with Avtur (the help involves switching a switch on, and then, an hour later,

off); and helped the comms manager to loosen the stays on the masts that our

aerials hang off. It’s by no means one way – I’d say I receive a lot more

support from fellow base members than I provide. People help raise to the handline

to the lab, jack our building, attend to electrical, heat and vent problems

– and, most importantly, I’m always asking for help with digging holes

for samples and snow for the melt-tank!

Anyway, that’s what I do when I get bored of my job – I look to do something

else for a while. On the whole though, my job keeps me fairly busy at a cruise

speed, nothing overkill and crazy like last summer but I’m certainly not twiddling

my thumbs either. So work, does work get me down? No, not really – if

I fix something I come home feeling dead chuffed and if something remains broken

I have learnt, or am learning, to not lose sleep over it. We’ll get there in

the end.

I guess the thing that can really sway my day is other people. I used to think

I was fairly stable, fairly reasonable (don’t we all?), sensible, even. But

you’ve got to remember that BAS sets out to employ reasonable, stable, independent

people. And mainly blokes. So here, I am none of my previous selves. PMT hits

me like a blast from the east, a word from a colleague can send me above the

clouds or into dephs of navel gazing, innocent banter at dinner can fuel my

energy or force me to leave the room protesting. This being a British base,

there is a lot of banter, a lot of piss-taking, a fair amount of sarcasm and

the inevitavble gossip. I thought I could give as good as I got but I’m learning

to coat my shoulders with teflon – something I’ve never been a master

of. Still, although I am improved from earlier in the year, one emailed sentence

from a fellow inmate down here had me instantly in tears today. Tears of anger

or despair, I’m not sure which, but whichever it is, it’s not right. And while

my friends here say "don’t let it get to you", and I know it wouldn’t

get to them, it still finds its tender spot. I don’t want sympathy, I’m not

unhappy, PLEASE don’t now elevate me further into ‘I couldn’t do it’ levels

– I just am answering a question since I realise that in this mood, and

this isn’t the first, I rarely write blogs.

The sun rose yesterday but we still haven’t seen it – it’s been hidden

behind clouds. Maybe tomorrow. I had intended to write a blog tonight about

the joys of daylight, the colours on the horizon, the effect it’s had on raising

the spirits of all on base, the increased energy around the place and all the

outside jobs we can now do. Of how bizarre it is to see the landscape we have

been creating in the dark – some things now buried, many things needing

attention. The wonder of clouds and stars at dusk. How much closer everything

seems. Everyone is rushing around happy that they can work without the aid of

a torch. Skidoos are running and trips off-base being organised. Light first

appearred around 10am, beautiful pink and orange sky, and dissappeared after

dinner, around 7pm probably. Amazing. Last week we had a storm so the change

from dark to light is spectacular and sudden. I had forgotten how normal daylight

is. I don’t particularly like the normalness of it, but it is very convenient.

Love, me.

UPDATE: Geoff, I’m not sure we have met, but to answer your

question, no, I don’t think there is ever a day here where I ‘just go to work’.

It’s now 3:40am on the same night as the earlier entry I sent to Felix. I went

to sleep for a few hours but was having bad dreams, tossing and turning, feeling

too warm. The clock said 2:30. I went back to sleep and had an intense and weird

dream. When I hauled myself out of it, groggy and shaking myself, the clock

still said 2:30. I sleep in a sensory deprivation chamber, without my clock

I have no reference of time.

Maybe my clock was wrong. I’m on gash today – surely someone would have

woken me if I hadn’t got up for cleaning? Or if it was 2:30pm (my clock is analogue)?!

I got up, I don’t know why, it’s rare for me to get up in the night. I was still

discombobulated from the evening’s earlier interaction and I think that was

why I didn’t sleep well. As I pottered down the corridor in my dressing gown,

very sleepy eyed, I met the friend who had earlier upset me. He apologised,

I apologised, we made up and chatted for a while. It was really important to

me to do this. Some people here have the ability to allow things like this to

slippery slide off their shoulders but I don’t. I take personal actions directed

at me very seriously. You might say I over-react. I’m learning a lot from these

blokes here, the ground rules of live and let live, and learning that I have

a lot to learn.

My friend told me there was a beautiful aurora happening outside. Could I

be bothered to get dressed for it? Twenty minutes later the night-shift person

confirmed it was a good ‘un, though not necessarily good enough to wake people

for. I never regret going outside, never. So after goodnights I returned to

my room for clothes and a ‘doo suit. Ten minutes later I was walking like the

Michelin man down the steps of the platform outsiude, crunch rustle rustle.

The ‘doo suits (glossary: doo =skidoo) are warm but cumbersome!

There was an aurora. Gentle green swirls in the sky, clear starry night. The

swirls of aurora, the low-level mist, the milky way, all washed foggy stripes

around the place, merged together, glazed the sky. Scorpio laughing from the

north now, Orion not yet risen. I really do miss him. But to the South was another

constellation I have been chatting with for a while but have not yet found a

name for. Simon was outside with me, he’s on night-shift but also conveniently

has a PhD in astronomy. I’ve been meaning to show him this constellation for

weeks.

As we’re looking around the sky he points out that Scorpio’s tail is in the

Milky Way. It’s good to know for when we get home. Oh – so when I see

the Milky Way, I should look for Scorpio’s tail and know the rest is out there

somewhere?, I ask. Scorpio is huge in the sky and apparrantly also visits the

north sometimes, like Orion visits us down here. I could believe that sometimes

you can only see his tail. No, Simon says, it’s so that when you see his tail,

you know that’s where the Milky Way is. I can’t imagine the stars without the

Milky Way. It’s sad to think the only reason we don’t see it is due to our own

light pollution. While we’re staring to the north watching the crustacean’s

pincers, a bright orb appears in the sky, falls, keeps falling, falls further

and eventually fades. It is the brightest shooting star either of us have ever

seen. Not so much shooting as dropping. There must be a meteor out there now,

about to be buried in snow. It’s funny to think that we’re closer to that then

any other people.

When we came in we looked the constellation up: Canis Major, Orion’s hunting

dog. So, Orion might be around less these days but at least he’s left his puppy!

I left the lab late today, around 9:30 pm, but it had been a productive afternoon

so I bore no grudges. A nice little blast of work to clear my conscience for

the weekend. Truth be told I haven’t done much up there this week as it’s been

stormy for the past few days and there’s no fun in going to the CASLab in winds

above 30 knots, vis less than 10m, unless you really have to. Anyway, I left

the lab in the dark. Two steps down and there was a breeze down my ankle –

I hadn’t pulled my overalls fully over my boots. Back indoors to re-attire.

And check the mitts are snug as well.

I reached the bottom of the steps and was nearly knocked over by a gust of

wind. It’s blowing 25 knots and though that’s low compared to the last few days,

I was reminded that it still gives the air a significant force. But nothing

unmanageable and the wind was behind me and slightly to my side, in my favour

at any rate.

I thought, I love this, this is great. I wanted to remember what it was like

so I stopped and looked around. Behind me was my beloved lab, shining white

by the floodlights, still looking as though it belongs on the moon. Inside it

is hot or cold, loud, buzzing, clicking and full of problems. From the outside,

it still makes me gasp with pride. I work there. That’s my lab. I even saw it

being built!

In front of me, well the direction I was headed, were three dim lights. Hazes

of light denoting the Piggott, Laws and Simpson platforms. Are they clear enough

to follow home or should I stick to the handline? I love following the lights,

there is so much space around me then. In every other direction I could see

nothing. I couldn’t see the surface my feet were walking on, I couldn’t see

my black mitts against the black sky. It does get really dark here still, thank

God. I felt elated. This is what I love. A strong wild wind, space in every

direction and a strong, deep, sense of security. Someone recently told me I

was brave; I couldn’t relate to that at all. Here I feel absolutely safe, at

one, at home. It’s wild but it’s wonderful.

Dark. The surface, I was thinking about the surface and how my feet feel the

way forward. Crunch crunch they squeak on the hard snow. Then suddenly a soft

patch, like icing sugar, it’s divine. Then back to the polystyrene chunks. Snap:

so easy to break. The worst thing that can happen between here and the Laws,

I feel, is that I fall over!

And as sure as mud is mud, you will fall over. I fall over the whole time.

I love falling over, we always laugh. It doesn’t hurt, there is nothing to be

scared of. Why does it hurt at home? Maybe the scrapes and bruises – but

here I am padded everywhere. A twinge in my lower back when my foot lands on

air and I fall deep into a sastrugi hole perhaps, but that’s the worst of it.

It makes me laugh always. I love tripping people up too. You’re never safe here

if someone is walking behind you! Come to Antarctica and learn to rugby tackle

(I was rubbish when I first got here – I’ll be responsible for all sorts

of bloody noses and lost friendships when I get home, no doubt, forgetting that

concrete hurts!).

So I’m thinking about the surface beneath my feet that I love walking on so

much. I could ski, not in this, but sometimes – but I prefer walking.

I like to feel the sastrugi under my feet, the snow, the ice, feel the ice,

a hundred metres of it maybe below me, and then below that is water. Salty,

cold and dense ocean. It’s great. Nothing like snow on concrete, snow on earth,

this is snow on snow on snow. All water molecules.

So I’m watching the world around me, so dark, so blowy, so exciting. Remarking

on how little there is to focus on, unlike at home. At home there would be buildings

everywhere, or at least trees. Here I just have three blurry lights in front

(I’m heading for the middle one) and one behind me. Black everywhere else. O

my – there’s a dot of light in front of me and up a bit. Bend, bend, bend

your back upwards, Rhian. My hood and dead rabbit hat and goggles are obscuring

anything above me, keep bending. O MY – LOOOK!! STARS!! Soo many stars

you have no idea, I am clapping with joy. There’s big smiley Scorpio and the

bright lights of the Southern Cross. The Milky Way streaking like a great smoky

line across the sky, even the magellanic clouds are clear tonight. This storm,

this 25 knots of blowing snow around my head – it’s just here, just at

ground level. Not even on the platform of the lab was it this blowy. It’s amazing.

I knew I wasn’t alone! Now I really am laughing, I can’t contain myself. Who

could ask for more?! Stars and storm?!! Woweee! I keep looking up but then I

can’t go forwards and I fall over. In the end I lie on my back, in the 25 knot

blow, snow flying past my ears, and stare at the sky. HALLO SKY I shout!! I’m

Rhian!!! I know, you fool, say the stars, we’re billions of years old. Now get

up before you never get up. And they accompany me all the way home.

Just before I reach the platform I am called in from my silence, my chest

bleats "Rhian, Rhian- Laws" and after some fumbling inside two jackets

I manage to extract my radio to inform them I’m ok, nearly there, nearly home.

"Would you like a drink waiting for you?" Oh yes, a gin and tonic

please, this is a night to celebrate.

We’ve had some beautiful skies lately. Fire red. What’s another word for sky?

That whole space, dome, all the air, that void around you, the entire thing,

the bell, the hemisphere is seems, fills with red. Excess light from a sun that

is still focused on Spain and far below our horizon. When the globe is visible,

it’s so bright we just get white. So I like it shaded, this way we see the glory

of the red. The sun’s overflow of light.

It’s not every day: just on clear days. Cloudy days are dark. So dark you trip

over your feet. Which makes me realise – it’s the cloud that makes days

dark, that obscures the light, not the lack of sun. There’s a moral in there

somewhere. Like when you fly above the clouds in a plane and suddenly it becomes

a glorious day despite the grizzliness below. But here, when you clamber above

the clouds, the stars and sometime moon are waiting. That’s the best bit. The

night sky is so full of stories.

I’ve had a few emails lately from friends and colleagues. ‘I hope you’re not

too lonesome down there’, ‘you must be pleased the light is returning’, ‘rest

assured the worst is over’, ‘you’re very brave’ and so on and so forth. I appreciate

the concern but feel like a bit of a con. Gnarly hard-core antarctic heroes

and all that. One hundred and five days of darkness, temperatures so cold it

doesn’t matter whether you speak in Farenheit or Centigrade (they cross at -40), blizzard conditions, isolation, the extremes of communal living. It is

all that, it is all that and more, but it’s easier for me than navigating the

streets of Manhattan, far less stressful, much simpler. There’s no questioning

what’s happening when it’s blowing a hoolie outside. More than that, the winter

is comforting somehow. I know some of my companions are struggling a bit without

the sun but so far it’s been my favourite time of year. And when the clouds

do part, well, there’s nothing close to it that can touch on it. The entire

sky is sunset light. The snow reflects pink. You realise that the sun, far away,

really truly is a ball of fire. And you get to see the stars. I’ll miss them

most when the light returns. But like the clouds, I just have to remember that

they’re there, even if I can’t see them.

I’m reading a book at the moment about the first international antarctic expedition

in 1949-52 (Foothold on Antarctica by Charles Swithinbank). So far, it is all

very familiar: the work, the weather, the struggles and highlights, even the

clothing and equipment. Sixteen men wintering for 2 years to study science.

It makes me smile when there are translations for words I use daily: sastrugi,

dunnage, mirage. However much our society develops, some things here will never

change. Dogs may leave, women and internet may arrive, but the place is the

same, the conditions will always be the same, and, to a certain extent, so will

the people who come down here. He talks about the different jobs – the

scientists and techies, the doctor who works all night and is never up for breakfast,

the meteorological observers who work shifts, record the weather every three

hours and launch daily met balloons.

It makes me see my job as a scientist down here in a new light – as part

of a long tradition. Gives it more purpose and reason somehow, something to

be proud of. The tents are identical and so are the supplies boxes used on a

field trip: tent box, pots box, personal box. We even have manfood boxes still,

all the same size, all designed to fit on a sledge and laid out inside the tent

according to the same tried and tested system. They even use the same stoves,

lamps and pots and keep the snow on the same side of the tent for melting. I

like it. It feels very familiar. I haven’t been very interested in reading about

past antarctic adentures until now because I wanted to form my own opinions

first. But now that I’m here, it seems to me that in some ways not much has

changed in the past 50 years and not much will change, however hard we try.

While writing my weekly letter to my Granny yesterday, I found myself stumped

for words. Stumped for material more like. What to say? Nothing has changed

since last week, there is no news to report. It’s still cold, it’s still dark,

I still go to the lab to work and I still live with the same 17 people who I

have lived with for the last four months. We have had no visitors, no mail,

no dramatic new events unfolding. Don’t get me wrong – we’re happy here,

laugh a lot, party, play games, watch videos, read books, have a million bizarre

conversations and a few serious ones too. But there’s not much to report.

I feel like I’ve already told you anything worth telling but that you somehow

expect more. You want drama and excitement, courageous battles with the weather,

brilliant diversions from near-miss incidents, comrades going mad with winter

depression and skin shrivelling up through lack of fresh fruit. But it’s not

like that. When you’re here, it just makes sense. But then maybe that means

I’m taking it all for granted. So this morning I thought I’d pay a bit more

attention to my daily routine and see what might be there out of the ordinary.

The sunshine lamp flooded my room with squintingly bright light around 7am

this morning thanks to an old fridge defrost-timer that the wintering electrician

rewired for me. Unimpressed, I crawled back under my duvet and hid my head.

At about 7:45, my alarm clock went off, jolting me back out of dreamland for

just long enough to hit the red button on the top. I was parched. At 8:45, I

finally pulled myself out of bed, downed the glass of water I had left there

the night before, climbed off the top bunk and into my issued clothing of thick

thermal socks, green moleskin trousers and a thermal top. Yum. O god, you’re

thinking, is this the kind of detail she’s going to go through the entire

day in? No. Well, maybe, we’ll see.

The point is, it’s really hard to get out of bed in the morning (and the driest

place on Earth). I’ve never found it easy, I know (past friends and housemates

are already laughing that I bothered mentioning it), but it’s really, really

hard. One guy here even asked if gravity was stronger at the poles due to some

effect of the rotation of the Earth! There is definitely a winter lethargy about

the place. It’s not that we don’t get stuff done. We just get it done at our

own pace, in our own time. There are plenty of theories about why this is; the

most widely accepted is that daylight acts as a reset switch in your bodyclock,

helping us to remain in approximate 24 hour synchronicity with each other. It’s

well documented that antarctic winterers can rapidly lose synchronicity from

each other ultimately resulting, in extreme situations, in social breakdown.

Which is precisely why I insist on dragging myself out to work for 9am and try

to finish before dinner – something I have never done at home when I have

had the freedom to work whatever hours I choose. Ironically, I have never lived

such a disciplined life as here, where the only social constructs are those

respected by the wintering contingent.

I digress. I get up, have breakfast, chat over a cup of tea, peg out, tog

up and go out to the lab. Need that expanded too?

Get up but don’t have a shower as water is limited and I like to have

a shower after I’ve hauled myself indoors, sweaty and tired, for the last time

of the day.

Breakfast is toast or cereal. Bread varies according to the person

on night-shift, apples and oranges are still around but the quality is a lottery,

and I often make yoghurt so that might go in a bowl as well.

Tea is obvious, chat usually is related to articles in the

newspaper that arrives in the middle of the night and has a scarily biased perspective

on everything. I am now an expert on the comings and goings on reality TV, Big

Brother, David Beckham’s sex life and where the Royal Princes will be holidaying

next.

Peg out – well, there’s a peg out board where you put your name

to the place you’re going to and write it in a book along with the time you

expect to be back. The daily gash person keeps an eye on the book throughout

the day and tries to find you if you’re out beyond your self-provided curfew.

It’s a little Big Brother-ish but could save your life.

Togging up, now I could write a whole book on antarctic clothing but

in short here’s what I add to my clothing in the boot room: ‘mucklucks’ on my

feet (big moon-boots, almost knee high, hard toe-capped), a thin fleece top,

all-in-one orange padded overalls, a balaclava, a neck-warmer, a dead-rabbit

mad bomber hat, a thick ‘windy’ cotton smock which blocks out the wind like

no other material I have ever experienced, goggles, thin glove liners and large

mitts. Plus an emergency back-pack with more clothing if I’m going to the CASLab

and a radio worn like vest under the outer layer to keep batteries warm. Ok,

so I’m togged up and ready to leave the building. It’s probably 09:30.

As I was leaving, I realised that I needed to go via the Simpson platform to

pick up some solutions I had mixed on Friday and some more deionised water for

various machines at the lab. Last summer a wet chemistry facility was built

on the Simpson platform since three of our instruments use liquid methods but,

for space, safety and practicality reasons, there is nowhere to prepare liquids

at the CASLab. The CASLab is about 1.3km from the Laws platform (where we live)

but if you go via the Simpson, the journey is a bit longer. In any bad weather

or reduced visibility conditions, we have to walk via the Simpson anyway as

this is the way the handlines are routed.

Leaving the Laws I remember that I bust the binding on my skis last week so

will have to walk. Since I’ll be taking lots of liquids with me, I take the

orange pulk sledge and harness, dump the emergency bag inside it and pull the

lot to the Simpleton. It’s not a long stop there – I pick up 5L of dilute

sulphuric acid in a glass bottle, 3L of sulphanilamide solution, a few pots

of pre-weighed powder, 3L of de-ionised water, 50ml of acetone and some crunchy

granola bars. I’m sure I’ve forgotten something but it’ll have to wait. It’s

cold outside so before leaving I make sure there are no bits of skin peeking

through my various headgear. I got a reasonable sized patch of frost-nip last

week on my left cheek and eye, now healing nicely, and I don’t want to re-expose

it. I load everything into the sledge and start the slog to the lab.

But what’s 24-hour darkness like?, you’re asking. Well, at this time of day,

it’s dark still, always dark. Today was quite cloudy so there wasn’t even the

joy of stars to carry me along the commute. The moon is waning but still shedding

quite a lot of light and the lights from the lab are bright enough that I can

follow them without needing a head torch. We had another brief storm last week

that dumped a lot of soft snow unevenly in lumps and bumps across the ice so

the walk is quite hard going. I fall over a couple of times and struggle when

the sledge catches on sastrugi (the hard bumpy bits on the snow). I’m pulling

less than 15kgs on the sledge but it feels like a lot more when we’re going

in opposite directions.

It seems to take an age to get to the lab, in reality it was probably about

20 or 25 minutes but I’m sweating loads when I do finally get there and relieved

to get indoors. There are a bunch of outdoor checks I usually do upon arrival

but today I’m too tired, and will cool off rapidly, so decide to do them when

there’s a bit more light outside. I get to the lab at 10:30.

Thankfully, everything seems fine once I get unwrapped and my breath back.

First I check the telescope room but it’s too cloudy to see any return signal

from the mirror bouncing light back at us from 4km away. On a clear day, this

is one of the most satisfying experiments as the return beam looks like a star

on the horizon and is easy to optimise and focus onto the optical fibre. We’re

looking for absorbance of light by a range of atmospheric species: mainly halogen

oxides and the nitrate radical. We don’t expect to see much chemical activity

during the winter months but it’s important to measure this so we know how it

compares to the increased signals when the sun returns. Year-round studies of

this nature in Antarctica are still pretty special.

The next instrument I check measures formaldehyde in the air. It seems to be

ticking away nicely but one of the reservoirs is running low: hence the sulphuric

acid I brought with me. That should last another week or two now although the

other liquid it uses is also running out and I’ll have to make a new batch this

week, maybe tomorrow afternoon. The HONO instrument is next – I refill

the Helium bag and feed the empty reservoir next to it with 3L of deionised

water. Sometimes it feels a bit like watering plants!

Next to this instrument is a gas chromatograph (GC) that measures Peroxy Acetyl

Nitrate, or PAN, and I notice that its water reservoir, used for circulating

coolant, is also low. This instrument stands in a rack. On the bench next to

it is a GC that monitors non-methane hydrocarbons (NMHCs) that is working well

at the moment. It needs a blank run though so I set up a Nitrogen cylinder and

change the programme accordingly.

The last of my instruments to come on-line is around the corner next to the

formaldehyde monitor; this measures peroxides and will hopefully be running

soon. While checking these five machines, I have barely had to move my feet

at all as they are crammed together around one human-sized patch of floor. Like

the conductor of an orchestra!

I make a note of the various solutions I need to prepare next. Ok, so everything’s

moderately happy, fed and watered. I spend the rest of the morning paying them

a bit more attention – running calibrations and blanks, troubleshooting

things I don’t understand, feeling a bit like a teacher in a room full of restless

children, all wanting a bit more attention than I have the time to provide.

It was a nice morning all-in-all: not too hectic and I made some good progress.

The lab is cramped and noisy though, so I was hoping to make it back in time

for lunch at 1pm. Around midday I venture outside for the outdoor work, hoping

it might have warmed up a bit. I go outside onto the platform and collect a

small plastic jar for sampling snow. It’s a dark day today so I need a torch

to find the pole where we sample from, about 100m from the lab. Once back on

the platform, I check the pressure in various gas cylinders, look at the air

inlets on the roof to check they’re not blocked, and pick up some freezer blocks

to keep solutions indoors cool.

By the time I get back inside, less than 10 minutes, the end of my nose and

tips of my fingers have gone white and are screamingly cold. The pain doesn’t

get better as I warm them up with the palm of my hand. Damn – I must have

not covered up properly, I’ve been nipped again. It’s time to leave, I want

to leave, I’m hungry and not looking forward to the journey back. I get dressed

again, this time with another balaclava and even bigger mitts from the emergency

bag, grab the bag, empty bottles and a 20L jerrican full of waste chemicals

that needs disposing back on base (to be eventally shipped back to the UK).

The air is dark, I can’t see any definition in the snow, the sledge is heavy

and difficult to pull on this lumpy surface. I’m being obstinate: I should really

dump the sledge and pick it up tomorrow but some days you just don’t want to

let the weather beat you. So I keep going. Within a few minutes my goggles are

steamed up and frozen – I put them on in a different order this time that

obviously doesn’t work. I can’t see squat. Without them I can see lights of

the Laws but risk getting more frostnip.

I realise that I’m not in a good mood and that it’s unfortunate that today

of all days is the day I decided to document in writing. Some days, when it’s

clear, the walk home is a joy. I chat to the stars, dance with the snow, sing

to myself. But today, it’s a slog. It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s 1pm for crying

out loud, I can’t see a thing and am having to direct myself through a tiny

slot between my furry hat, balaclava and windy hood. I tried wearing the goggles

and hanging onto the handline but that was even more ludicrous. I know I’ll

be ok, I have no doubt about my safety or ability to get home, I just wish that

I could be there now.

Forty minutes and a couple of stumbles later, I crawl indoors and collapse

for a couple of minutes. Melodramatic drama queen! The gash dude did call me

on the radio just after my last stumble which was kind of comforting –

knowing that if I hadn’t replied they would have come out looking for me. Nice

to know that the system works, anyway.

A bowl of tomato soup and a bacon roll later, I’m laughing about it. I’ve checked

the weather data and it’s not as bad as it felt: only -31C with 15 knot winds.

It felt a lot colder, I guess the subjective was -42C though. Still, at this

time of year it usually has to reach -40C or windspeeds above 30 knots to get

much of an oo and an aah around the table. What a wuss!

I’ve warmed up but my nose is sore, my cheek raw and I don’t fancy returning

to the lab. All is fine there and I have plenty I can be getting on with on

the Simpson platform for the afternoon. But no, damn, I realise I might have

left the gas store open when my fingers got frostnipped with the intention of

closing it later. Damn. It would probably be ok for the night but if the wind

picks up, not good – the bottles would get cold and the store fill with

snow. It’s my colleague’s day off today (we alternate weekends and Mondays)

but bless him, he offers to go out and check for me in the afternoon. I am so

grateful! None of my face fancies more of that journey again today.

Truth be told, I’m a bit bored of this blow – it’s not big enough to

be exciting but is too big for any good outside activity. Like how you get bored

of grey days and dull rain in Britain. Last week was much nicer: I was on melt-tank

duty and often sat on the snow mound after the tank was full, looking at the

night sky in the morning or enjoying the red glow if it was an afternoon dig.

I even went for a walk on Saturday, the weather was so calm.

I spend the afternoon replying to work-related emails, fixing a pipette and

analytical balance in the wet chem lab, and preparing some more chemicals. That

winter lethargy seems to have crept back in again. Dinner’s at 6pm, after that

our usual banter and then I pick up a new book. My last books were ‘Love in

The Time of Cholera’ followed by ‘Touching the Void’ (Joe Simpson) and am now

starting ‘Oranges are Not the Only Fruit’.

At 8pm we have our Monday night double bill of ’24’ and then, after my heart-rate

calmed down, I plugged in my laptop and started writing this. It was a fairly

typical day I guess, if a bit colder than usual. Somedays the weather is better

but the lab is much worse. I’d rather have the former by far. I thought it was

nothing to report but I guess it only feels normal if you do it every day.

It’s been a while – thanks for prompting me. I have no excuses except

to say I’ve been working on the Halley May webpage which I hope you’ll enjoy.

A refreshing change from my usual drivel, this one contains loads of photos

and chat about everyone else on base. (Who was it asked for the Hollywood trailer

in a comment?!) Also, Simon here has put a bunch more

photos on

his website so for those of you with some time to waste on the internet, have

fun!

Thinking about time. Here’s what I came up with. Stars moving overhead, Orion

setting to the northwest as I walk home from the lab, the Southern Cross moving

from the south, the glow of rainbow hue from below the horizon to the north

east in the early afternoon. Midday stars. Time referenced to events: before

the storm, the night of the aurora, the full moon.

And then there are human changes. Beards growing, the length of my hair, everyone

gradually becoming more chunky with hibernation fat, body cycles. Growing familiarity

between compatriots: inside jokes, jests, rumours, a new comfort level, a sense

of safety within the devil you know. Subtle changes to personalities, people

coming out of their shells, surprise reactions, mood swings, the unveiling of

pasts and sharing of thoughts. And, for structure, base activities: Monday is

’24’, doc school on Tuesday, Workshop Wednesday, aerobics and curry on Thursday,

Friday night at the bar, end of the working week, Saturday some themed festivity,

Sunday telly throughout the day and big screen movie. These are the ways I notice

time passing.

A dear friend wrote to me recently asking about time and why we never have

enough of it. It’s an age old question I guess and one that shouldn’t be relevant

here. I was about to say it is timeless but I’m more aware of the passage of

time here than ever before. Just not as defined by watches and clocks, schedules,

meetings, events and plans. I remember the horror I felt last summer when Louisa

and I were trying to meet up and our first available opportunity was 6 weeks

ahead. Now I’m back in the days of todays and tomorrows. If I don’t do something,

it’s because it’s not been made a priority.

Work is different, I’ll never have enough time to do all the things we want

to do in the lab. Instruments will continually break and need attention. Most

of my time is spent on maintenance of kit and on top of that there are specific

investigations we want to do at different times of year. Work is work but it’s

still pretty varied and to a large extent I am in control of what I do.

But my free time, that’s my choice how it’s spent. No shopping, communal cooking

and cleaning (and we get the day off work to do that), no commuting, no old

friends to catch up with or must-see events, no choice of parties on a Saturday

night!

How do I spend my time here? On some level it’s much the same as home –

as many distractions as you could ever want and an equal number of good intentions.

There’s always someone to chat with, always some conversation happening or sit-com

running to pass the time. It actually takes effort to take yourself away. Another

thing everyone’s scurrying off to do is make their mid-winter presents. I’ve

lost hours in the dark room and am trying to teach myself the guitar. But I’m

never bored, never wondering "what shall I do now".

But it’s also not like home at all. We are, very much, in a communal bubble.

All experiencing this strange continual cold and dark, all restricted by the

weather, all living in a world with the same structure of time: melt-tank digging,

gash day, weekends, midwinter. The thought of being dropped back in a world

where your daily existence is totally different from that of your partner or

housemate is a little scary. We have to take in so much at home, process so

much information every second. Even if you try to empty your thoughts, a hundred

more rush in. Here, I guess, it is a slower and simpler life.

I’m busy, I’m never bored, but I’m not stressed either. There are stressful

moments for sure, and at times like that you crave anonymity and a space to

escape to almost as much as a fresh mango (please, please don’t torment me with

even the memory of one!), but that blows over just like everything else. It’s

like a microcosm of society, a time to try and understand yourself and other

people on a most basic and simple level. Myth holds that folk leave this place

with the ‘Halley Stare’ and that we all go a bit mad but it’s not true! Everyone

I’ve met who’s wintered just seems more at ease with themselves and perhaps

aware of what they do and don’t like. Maybe that’s just it – I won’t care

if you think I’m mad, it doesn’t matter any more.

Felix thought I might write less frequently during the winter and said he’d

nag me. Instead, the rest of you have, and I appreciate it. At some point, my

time here as become my ‘norm’ and I feel like there’s not much left to say.

Not much changes on a week-to-week basis. Not much that I imagine you’d be interested

in anyway. We keep doing our things, having our weird, wonderful and increasingly

more bizarre chats, watching films, drinking wine. It’s very comfortable. I

was going to say it’s even busy but not compaerd to your lives – busy

here means that there’s something going on every night. But you’d never dream

of combining two events in one day!

Yes, maybe time has slowed down… or maybe I’ve slowed down to the comfortable

speed that we’re meant to enjoy time at. At this speed, there’s plenty of time

for everything you want to do and never enough for the things you don’t. Perfect.