Plague-asus

When adversity strikes, there are several reactions one can have as the peril begins to unfold. “What have I gotten myself into?” is a common one, often accompanied by panic, despair or rueful musings on how whatever had led up to that moment was clearly avoidable if only someone – possibly yourself – had had the presence of mind to talk some sense into you. For those who prefer the more aggressive half of the fight-or-flight instinct, “Bring it” encompasses the sort of stubborn defiance that, yes, what’s coming is not going to be enjoyable, and probably won’t end well, but doggoneit you’re going to go down swinging.

It just got real.

I feel like that’s a very non-committal response that nevertheless portrays the arising of something both unpleasant and unexpected. It’s the thought that went through my head as the back-end of my van threatened to overtake the front end while driving down the road from Pegasus. Pegasus is the permanent runway at McMurdo Station, securely situated on the Ross Ice Shelf, a several-hundred-foot thick sheet of ice sitting on top of the ocean. Early in the summer season, a temporary airport is used for flights, since it’s close to town. However, it’s also located on seasonal ice that becomes too thin by mid-summer, and operations are moved to the more distant Pegasus runway. A one-way trip to Pegasus is about 16 miles – only 2 of which are on land – and takes about 45 minutes since the speed limit is 25 mph.

But I wasn’t really thinking of that at the time. Nor was I marveling at the physics involved in a vehicle moving sideways down a road, about which prior to that moment I had always been curious. I wasn’t even really worried about the fact that I was pointed directly toward the dreaded flag line, where the snow is notoriously soft and unwary drivers can find their vehicles stuck if they drift to close. I’d already been through that experience on my first day driving to Pegasus: my front passenger-side wheel had sunk through disarmingly pristine snow near the flag line and dragged the rest of the vehicle with it. Despite my heroic attempts to guide the van out, its momentum had slowed, slowed… slowed… stopped, one back tire digging un-helpfully deeper into the bank. It had taken a call to the road maintenance crew and a half hour wait before I was on my way again that time.

This time, though, I was thinking about how bad the entire road had become, and how, if this was the fate of the rest of my season, it would be an epic struggle of man against nature, with nature claiming more than her fair share of victories. She was already savoring several, as my drive to Pegasus included weaving around 4 stationary vans waiting forlornly for roadside assistance at various points along the road. One van had broken down the previous night, tearing a coolant line. It had had emergency first aid consisting of a bucket being placed beneath it,  and then left for a later time when there were less pressing concerns. The three other vans were jammed into banks of snow or caught in ruts too deep to climb out of. Each of those three vans had fellow shuttle drivers – some with passengers as well – who watched and cheered as I fought to get around them. I dared not stop for fear of not being able to go again.

And that’s really one of the keys: not stopping in the worst sections. Sometimes even that’s not enough, but it gets you through a lot. Between the swollen snow tires and the four wheel drive, there’s much vans can handle, albeit bumpily. Driving them along, you can feel when they’re getting grip and when you’re relying solely on the momentum they had built up. Even when they lose grip and start sliding out from under you, there’s confidence that the momentary loss of control is only momentary, and the back end will some whip around to back where it belongs. But when you get caught in the foot deep ruts, you are forced to follow them wherever they go, and sometimes that place is not a happy one. Or when you come across a pit of soft snow you can only hope your momentum will carry you to the other side.

I cut my steering wheel all the way back, but for a moment, the van was in no mood to respond. Then one of the tires found grip and the front was again pointing forward. The victory was brief, however, as a swamp of soft snow loomed before me. Should I follow the deep ruts of previous drivers, or cut a new rut? I hesitated, and too late decided to make my own path. The van caught the edge of the old rut, bounced out and slammed into the untouched patch, robbing the speed it was carrying. The engine revved but I could feel the wheels weren’t finding traction as the van coasted to a stop.

Crap.

For a moment I was resigned to the high likelihood that a call to the road crews was in order, and another wait was moments away. But there’s one hope: forward was not an option but maybe I could ease the van back the way it came. If the tires slipped and started spinning, then I was doomed. Perhaps I could shovel my way out, but it would still be a moral defeat if it came to that. I set it in reverse, gave some gas. The van rocked, the tires didn’t slip, but I didn’t go anywhere. I tried again, timing each rev of the engine to the moment of the rocking that would give it a little more motion. Feeling the back tires clear the lip of the rut, I kept moving backwards until there was snow that feels solid enough to build some speed on. My second attempt at the snow swamp cleared it with ease and the journey along that plagued road from Pegasus continued.

Creativity, Part 1

There is no shortage of creativity in McMurdo. Considering the demographics, I suppose that it shouldn’t be surprising, but there is still something unexpected in seeing such a dense concentration of it in a community that is so small and feels, on a day-to-day basis, more like a mining town than a mecca of craft and imagination. In my stereotypical world, a remote place such as this with 1000 people will consist mostly of men, dirt and alcohol. Actually, McMurdo fits that bill, and yet it flourishes artistically both in work time and off time. I think this can be attributed to the people who are drawn to a place like Antarctica, often times taking jobs well below their abilities to get the opportunity just to be here. Even the janitors and dining attendants are exceptionally intelligent and adventurous people. I don’t envy some of the stuff they have to deal with from the population as a whole, but they do it with energy and enthusiasm and spend their off time expressing themselves and having fun.

I think nothing is more emblematic of this part of McMurdo culture than Freezing Man, hailed as the Burning Man of Antarctica. Yes, it’s not nearly as big, it has none of the psychedelic drugs, and there are a ton fewer conspiracy theories (maybe because McMurdo – and Antarctica as a whole – is so often a component of conspiracy theories in the real world?), but it does have this to greet people as they enter the event:

I suppose this is a peace van. There is a lot of absurdity in it, not the least of which is the thought of anything green and living ever being found anywhere close to here. But it’s an interesting piece, and I think about what a pleasant niche this would be to retreat to with a few people where the main event gets excessively loud or crowded. Now, however, it’s early and the airporter is abandoned.

The bulk of the event is held inside the “Big” Gym, where many of the station-wide gatherings take place. The last party held here was Halloween, and by the end of the night the space inside was filled with several hundred pirates, vikings, animals, cartoon characters, Village People, and mad scientists. At that event, I had donned my fuchsia silk shirt and added to it skinny jeans, a black afro wig, and a faux-black fur-lined jeans jacket to become Freddie Limbo, the 1983 to 1985 Long Beach State Limbo Champion.

The peak of the Halloween party came at the costume contest, where those with the best costumes (or just the most self-confidence) gathered on stage to offer their creations to the crowd. There was a crayon, a bottle of whiskey, a “runner” in what can best be described as a full-body stocking, a Conestoga wagon, and two dozen more outfits that were examined by the judges. Eventually the competitors were narrowed down to Oscar the Grouch and Winnie the Pimp (just to the left Of Oscar), and it was left to the crowd to cheer for the winner.

Winner: Oscar, but narrowly.

That was followed by the group costume contest, which was represented by Captain Planet and the Planeteers, the Village People, a colony of penguins, Frosty Boy (the ice cream machine down here), several trout and Cougars… of the human variety. The finalists were the Cougars and the fish, and allowed to perform for the crowd, the fish stole the show. They swam around the stage, jumping up and down and being all around… fishy. When the MC had had enough of their antics, he told them to get down, and they immediately dropped to the floor and started flopping helplessly. They were the runaway winners.

But back at Freezing Man, where it is still early, the gym has few people in it, but it is far from empty. I arrived early to get pictures of the booths before it’s too crowded. Near the entrance, I come across the Hugging Deli:

This is an absolutely brilliant idea. And the variety… this might give patrons more choice than any comparable Deli anywhere on the continent!

As I survey the gym, I see a number of booths and things to do, some expressive, some silly and some expressively silly. There is a porch swing tied to the basketball backboard, a blank canvas with paint supplies sitting on a nearby table, and a half dozen hula hoops sitting in the middle of the gym. Presiding over the event is the freezing man.

Later in the night, with the lighting turned down and the blacklights turned up Freezing Man towers over the party, glowing yellow and pink and purple. I doubt that at the end of the event he will be set on fire like his Arizonan counterpart, but maybe he’ll be thrown outside.

I am drawn – inexplicably – to the wooden board with holes of decreasing size cut into it and Frisbees sitting at its base.
Throughout the night I return to it to chuck a couple disks at the board.  When the music is turned up and people start dancing with hula hoops, balls on strings and other props, I take a disk and twirl it to the music – upright, sideways, upside down. I’m not big on dancing, but I can get into a groove with the Frisbee.

In another area there is a mock bedroom, with bed, nightstand, couch and chair. I don’t know what exactly to make of this. Who had ever thought to include this here? What is the message, or the purpose? I figure that I’m thinking about it too hard, and decide to just go with it. And I can’t help but think how pleasant it looks. Later, party-goers use it as a place to sit and chat.

If the bedroom seems out of place at this event, the Anonymous Interpretive Dance Screen fits right in. A translucent screen is tucked in a corner and surrounded by walls. This would create a private alcove, but there is a red lamp opposite the screen and people who go in have their shadow cast onto the screen, visible to everyone in the gym. Of course, that’s the point: you can see there is someone in there, but since it’s just a shadow, it’s nearly impossible to tell who. All around, the gym, I have the impression of people expressing themselves in creative ways. As the night goes on and people arrive, I see outfits that rival those at Halloween. Perhaps they’re not as varied or themed as Halloween, but they are more expressive. For my part, I have on orange Underarmor and my multi-faceted fuchsia silk shirt. Other people are wearing silver dresses straight out of a 1950’s sci-fi, authentic Irish kilts or tight spandex. The atmosphere is light and spirited. Over the course of the night, a large percentage of the base passes through, some to participate and some just to catch a glimpse of it all. I imagine that the organizers of this event put a lot of work into it, and I find myself hoping they realize what a great environment they’ve create, and how much of a success the event is.