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.