Glimpses

Hmmm, Scott has 450 pics on his camera, and he is trying to cull some down for a blog entry before he leaves in 5 days, but he is also busy trying to get his crew ready for their departure, so I thought I might just jot down some little visual snippets from this week.

During my weekly long run (I'm up to 11.5 miles in preparation for the marathon in Jan.), my black running gloves grow tiny perfect crystals on the back of them like little mushrooms. When I stop , they give off as much steam as corn on the cob fresh from the pot.

On the way out to the ice runway and further out to Cape Evans (14 miles from station and not far from open ocean), the snow is swept away and you can see patches of turquoise sea ice. The color is so arresting because it is the same color as tropical seas. I get an eerie sensation that if I look down, I might be able to see a seal under the ice looking back at me. It is easy to forget as we barrel down the snow roads that we are actually traveling across ice which will melt in a month, and I often forget that there are numerous sea creatures frolicking in the fathoms beneath.

Out across the frozen sea, snow oozes over the foothills of the Royal Society Range, forming perfect frosted Bundt cakes. The Oreo black volcanic dirt of Arrival Heights has become much more striking these last few weeks as the white patches of snow melt away. Last night I park Delta 498 (old navy vehicle) at a midnight as bright as late summer afternoons in Montana (after leading a recreation tour), and I notice the tangle of electric cords we have to plug every parked vehicle into are looking a lot like drying homemade spaghetti. Yes, this continent makes me hungry!

Blue and gray chains adorn Hazel, the Caterpillar grater's tires, like garish jewelry, as she (all vehicles here are female except Ivan the Terra Bus) grooms the airfield. Her blade is cut out like the mouth of a Jack-O-lantern, perfect for smoothing the snow into a firm crunchy surface. A lone orange cargo delta zooms up and down the distant runway, assisting the grooming process with her super-wide tires. From this vantage point, it is as insignificant as a Tonka truck in the beach sand. The large gray plane appears suddenly out of the northern sky, and I am transfixed for perhaps the thirtieth time at this complex and heavy human made object hanging in the sky, our lifeline to our other lives.

A cloud snakes its way around Erebus's shoulder. Like Satan tempting Christ in the wilderness, the cloud chummily beckons the mountain to look north, but Erebus ignores the cloud, puffing indifferent smoke plumes. They roil upwards in barely perceptible movements, changing every time I look, but never seeming to move when I watch, like the minute hand on the neon clock in the galley.