There is a saying down in McMurdo:  It’s a harsh continent. You use it like you would use the phrase ‘Tough cookies’ or ‘Life is hard’ elsewhere in the world. Someone whining about the food? It’s a harsh continent. No more beer at the general store? It’s a harsh continent. Just get assigned the airporter that has no heater and smells of diesel? It’s a harsh continent.

The etymology is clear enough. Antarctica has some of the more extreme conditions you’ll find in this world. The day my flight arrived I was greeted by crystal blue skies and temperatures hovering around 20 F. Three days later the temperature was -13 F and the wind chill was -38 F. I can say with certainty that I’ve never experienced conditions like those before. But here, they are not uncommon, and still nice compared to mid-winter. Frostbite and hypothermia are big concerns, and there have already been instances this season of people affected by both.

Cold as it can get, it’s the wind and accompanying wind chill that are the biggest everyday dangers. The town itself is nestled snuggly between several large hills, and can be somewhat protected by the wind. That by no means makes it immune, however, and when it blows through town, even a walk 100 yards from the galley to work is miserable if attempted without gloves or a sufficiently thick coat.

Elsewhere the wind is not so lenient. Between our base and the New Zealand base (Scott Base), there is a pass between a large hill that sits on the edge of the peninsula and an upland that extends towards the heart of the island. In the pass are the fuel pumps for our vehicles. There is also a constant wind funneling through it, and woe to the person who thinks he doesn’t have to bundle up to refuel. Sometimes the winds howls through the pass, and hits the metal pipes at the right angle and speed to create a resonance in them, and the area is filled with an eerie tonal sound coming from seeming emptiness.

The wind also creates one of the more mesmerizing effects across the ice. As it blows along the surface, it takes particles of snow along with it, and rivers of snow particles cross the road, migrating to places unknown. But the view is a delicate one, and all my attempts to capture with camera have failed. Still, driving out to the runways there are usually several streams of snow along the way, and I could spend a long time watching them flow by if I had not places to be.

The wind is a near-everyday companion down here. Less common are the storms, though we’ve had 2 or 3 since I’ve arrived. Since even on clear days the wind can blow, and do so quite violently, I think storms are better delineated by the accompanying visibility… or lack thereof.

The storms are most appreciated when outside of town on the ice, driving to and from the air field. In bad conditions, an alert is issued, and no one can travel between the town and the air field without radioing in to the firehouse first and telling them who you are, where you’re going, how many people you have and when you expect to get there. If they don’t hear from you before your estimated time (even if it’s just to say you’re running late), things get serious quick, because no one wants to risk the possibility that you’re in trouble out there.

In the worst conditions, they only let people go if there is a dire need, as we had during one of the storms. All personel had been recalled to the town because of bad conditions, but 6 people were stuck at the airfield with only a pickup truck and loader to bring them back. At first, they considered putting two people in the back of the pickup, but that was quickly nixed because no one wanted them to drive into town with 4 people and 2 popsicles. So Dan and myself were given the task to join up with the group and bring them back.

It’s a somewhat surreal experience driving out onto a frozen ocean, featureless in the foreground except for flags placed every 50 feet, the distance an all-encompassing, gray nothingness. There is no sky, no ground and no horizon between the two. It’s not dark. It’s not bright. And it’s everywhere.

Carefully, slowly, we made it out to the air field. What was normally a vista of shacks on skis was reduced to the occasional flag or crate popping out of the murkiness, and being engulfed by it almost as quickly as we passed by. We reached the workers. Three got into our vehicle, and the truck caravan-ed behind us.

The loader was waiting at the road back to town, and would lead the way with his higher vantage point in the loader’s cab. Finding the road back to town proved difficult, and much harder than finding the workers: the airfield contains large patches of open space, trivial to traverse in clear conditions, but dangerous when you can’t see where you’re going. If you’re not paying close attention and get disoriented, you can easily find yourself driving off into a wasteland of crevasses and emptiness. Finding the flags of the road are paramount, and after what seemed like much too far a distance, they appeared, with visibility hovering around 100 feet. The caravan proceeded back into town, and there was much rejoicing. Some video of our journey can be found here and here.

The weather, the wind, the snow and the sun combine to make McMurdo what it is, and make it a unique experience. Maybe it’s just that I’ve missed winter living in Tucson for so long, but I am wholly embracing the idea that this is a harsh continent.