Tag Archive for 'Ice Crystals'

Bidding Farewell

Ice berg floating off the Ice Shelf

Iceberg floating off the Ice Shelf

Day 28; February 19, 2009; Penguin Bukta, Fimbul Ice Shelf, Southern Ocean, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 20.93˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 35.1 mph
Feels Like: -31.72˚ F

Dawn both elated my soul and dimmed my heart, as this sunrise marked my last day on the continent of Antarctica for this journey. I had been up all night, again, attempting to observe and capture the ever-changing nature around me. The base was completely silent, deep in the arms of Morpheus. I, bundled in all of my gear, took the video camera outside to record the light from our massive star, which was proclaiming the day on the southern horizon.

Facing east into 30-knot winds, I sat on the ground in the tumult of wailing wind and fiercely blowing ice crystals. My body swayed in the chaotic pulsing of the wind’s force while I anchored the camera as best I could and began my 30-minute recording. The strong morning light refracted off each frozen water crystal and magnified itself throughout the snowy distance. The world around me was almost painfully radiant—as if the ice itself was ablaze. What a sublime and ethereal world Antarctica is!

This was the same phenomenon I had experienced my first day arriving at SANAE, and now on my last it seemed somehow fitting to be experiencing it again; a full circle. Cycles are the hidden breath of our being—the innate rhythm of traversing time. The closing of one cycle always denotes the opening of another, and as I looked out across the luminous layer of snow that hovered almost two feet from the ground, my own body seemingly suspended in its westerly flow, I surrendered to the cold, the wind, and my last moments on the Ice. Antarctica has shown me so much of its magnificence—I’m ever stunned and awed by its force and sovereignty.

Upon my return from outside, I rushed to put the remaining things into my bags and joined Thomas and 1stborn, and headed off to the heli-pad. It would take three days to transport everyone from the base to the ship, save the ten people remaining for the winter, and we had been scheduled to depart on the very first flight to the ship. Having secured the sole window seat in advance so I could photograph the landscape during our hour-long journey to the sea, I peered out of the bulbous aperture and watched as the helicopter leapt upward into the air currents. Neall and Kevin, our pilots, were generous with our flight, and we had a great tour of the nunataks and their wind scoops en route to the ice shelf. Beyond the mountain range, we passed over massive geometries of crevasses, and the elongated patterns of cloud shadows stretching, as if lines, across the snow-covered landscape.

With my eyes lost on the horizon, my mind turned inward, and before long emotion overtook me. I was leaving Antarctica, and the deep feeling of loss that emerged surprised me. My affinity for this land had been immediate and absolute, and my departure from the ice continent filled me with enormous sorrow. Tears flowed in gratitude for the pure beauty and grace of my experience here, and for the gifts Antarctica had bestowed. It is, indeed, a privilege to come to this land and experience its phenomenal nature. Antarctica shall never leave me.

My melancholy transformed instantly as the ice shelf became visible below, revealing the birthplace of icebergs. From this vantage point, I could see clearly where staggeringly large areas of the shelf had just broken off, and where others would soon follow. These ice islands, entirely unmoored, drift freely northward on their lonely voyage out to sea, where they continue to break down and melt as they traverse the latitudes toward warmer waters.

The sight was literally breathtaking—hundreds of colossal icebergs floated effortlessly along the coast, despite their sheer mass. Tiny air bubbles caught in the ice layers make the icebergs particularly buoyant, causing them to rise even higher than the surface of the shelf itself once they are freed from it. Amazingly, the visible area of an iceberg—above the ocean’s surface—displays only 30 percent of its actual size. The remaining 70 percent lies hidden under the sea.

It is a wondrous experience to see these remarkable forms scattered across the horizon, appearing as impossible mountains. Their surreal, luminous grandeur seemed in stark contrast to the grey-bronze sea. As I marveled at their amorphous shapes, the sun streaked golden light behind the thick clouds, painting the dark water with a warm shimmer.

We had begun our descent, and quickly the red deck of the SA Agulhas Research Vessel appeared below. We landed with the ship at sea, the watercraft rocking in the waves as I stepped off the helicopter. Finding my balance, and attuning my body to what would be two weeks aboard this ship, I looked back toward the continent. The icebergs, which I had seen from the air, were now towering around us, their presence insistent and hypnotic. The ice shelf behind them glowed brightly in the now midmorning sun.
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Light Recordings

Sun Pillar at Sunset

Fleeting Sun Pillar at Sunset

Day 18; February 9, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 9.86˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 18.12 mph
Feels Like: -17.32˚ F

Today was quiet, and rather wonderfully subdued. I spent a good deal of the afternoon gazing out the window of my studio, meditating on the changing luminosity across the horizon to the south. The mountains appeared and disappeared behind think low clouds, and it was snowing heavily in the distance, leaving the farthest mountains obscured completely in gray opacity.

As the sun aligned itself on the horizon, there was another intense sun pillar. Rising like a flame above the rocks on the edge of our mountaintop, the beam glimmered outward a fiery pink from its golden core. Then, as if merely a chimera, it was gone, its floating crystalline form having vanished into the wind.

At 9:18pm, the exact moment of moonrise, I began a 24-hour light recording piece with the video camera. Tonight is the full moon, and its light shines in unison with that of the dimming sun. I will continue documenting the natural light for 15-minute durations every hour for 24 hours. The final piece will be my first multi-paneled screen video installation. For now, that is all I will say of it.
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What is White

Light reflecting off ice crystals

Light reflecting off ice crystals

Day 16; February 7, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 17.78˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 13.42 mph
Feels Like: -2.35˚ F

A colour is never merely a colour, but the colour of a certain object…
-Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception

Here in Antarctica there is snow and ice virtually everywhere, a fact that may at first seem elementary but upon deeper reflection is infinitely complex. The impressive quantity of these natural crystalline elements extends as much vertically as they do horizontally, permeating the air and cloaking the land. The depth of the ice beneath my feet approaches 30 feet, with the thickest ice on the continent measuring nearly three miles. Above the frozen land, even the sky is saturated with floating ice particulate, which are seized by the wind, and whirled about at chaotic speeds. These icy eddies allow for the quality of air that encourages the magnificent atmospheric optics that I see throughout the day.

The luminous expanse of the ice fields tempts my eyes to peer out toward the boundless horizon, as if trying to redefine the periphery of my own vision, enticing me to look beyond the limits of my former perceptions. There, hanging on the diaphanous line between land and sky, I see only endless snow and ice. Even in the direction of the mountains to the south, where the nunataks of the Ahlmann Ridge Range break the flatness of the terrain, it is the insistent presence of snow and ice that prevails.

It would be natural to presume the whiteness of such a landscape, and yet the more time I spend watching the environment each day, the less I believe in white at all. While there are momentary glimpses of something that feels like white, as when the mid-noon sun pushes its strong rays against the landscape so that the sheer brightness of its downward angle eliminates all hope of color, in truth it is luminosity that reigns. White, then, seems to become only a vehicle for the action of light upon the landscape, yet what is persistently baffling is that white can only exist as a consequence of light.

The idea of white is rather like the idea of zero. In a sense they are both elusive, and at the same time they each define entire systems, in science and mathematics, respectively. While they themselves are intangible, they give birth to their own infinities. Both white and zero each contain within them their own intrinsic paradox: white appears to the eye as the absence of all color, and yet it can be scientifically proven that it is comprised of all color, while zero is the sum total of nothingness and yet it can be proven to exist. Interestingly, they have both in various ways referred to the idea of the void. White and zero are lone wolves, isolated, like the continent of Antarctica itself, from the very things to which they are intrinsically connected.

White is not, itself, a color in the visible spectrum of light, but rather the sum total of them all. If you take all the color frequencies in the observable gamut, which range from 380 to 750 nanometers, you would get white light. Sir Isaac Newton, standing on the shoulders of earlier optical scientists, showed us these basic principals in his legendary prism experiment. By placing a prism in the direct path of the sun, he saw that white light divided into the pure spectral colors otherwise known as violet, blue, green, yellow, orange, red.

If white is the summation of all spectral color, then why do we experience white to be the absence of it? While Newton’s discovery furthered science in extraordinary ways, what of this theory of quantitative differentiation tells us of the millions of other colors we experience that have no name? The world as we see it with our senses is not merely comprised of these six colors.

Philosophically, white has always been attributed to the “blank canvas,” new beginnings, and is a beacon for peace and purity. Yet, is anything actually white? When we think we perceive white, we actually can still see bits of other colors, as light reflects and refracts across objects and surfaces. For instance, observe an average white-painted wall throughout the course of a 24-hour period. At first you take for granted that it is white because you expect it to be white. However, when you look more closely, and with time, you will see how slightly bluish the wall is by the window at midday, and slightly yellowish it is by the lamp you turned on after sunset, and how an orange chair is reflecting slightly onto the wall, making a glowing orangey spot of color appear.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the great philosopher and color theorist, was less interested in separating the spectrum into its divisible parts, as Newton was, but investigated instead the vague space between the pure colors, where the clear delineation between one color and the next was more mysterious. He looked not to the individual wavelengths but to the merging of short-wave light and long-wave light. He looked to where light interacted with itself. His research began with the notion that color, or light, was in fact a perceptual act that necessarily included a more introspective interpretation.

Looking out toward the horizon, with the subtle hues of colors blending and overlapping before my eyes, I begin to see the wisdom of his thinking. This complex system of light, and our seeing of it, maintains that the world of natural phenomena lies quite beyond the mind.

The observer does not see a pure phenomenon with his eyes, but more with his soul. Information from the eye depends on the disposition of the organ at the moment, on light, air atmospheric conditions, matter, manipulation, and a thousand other circumstances.
Goethe, January 15, 1798 (From Goethe’s Color Theory)

Observing, then, pure phenomenon itself, like the suns rays bouncing off the snow, or refracting through suspended ice crystals that are blowing in the strong Antarctic winds, I don’t perceive just one color, but many simultaneously. These substances—ice and snow—are prisms in their own right, and so display for us a myriad of colors as the result of light passing through them as they mingle together throughout the land and sky. But, then, the question remains, what color are all the individual frozen water crystals themselves? Are they white?

Physiologically, white is the perceptual experience which is elicited by light, and which subsequently activates the three kinds of color sensitive cone cells in our eyes in equal amounts. There is virtually an endless number of combinations of colors in the visible spectrum that will stimulate these cones in such a way—in other words, the illusion of white can be accomplished by an almost infinite number of luminous color circumstances. So then where does white exist? Is it a function only of our mind?

As I watch, minute-by-minute, the way the light interacts with the ice, snow and floating crystalline particulate, I am ever fascinated by the realization that what is purportedly “white” before me, is truly anything but. Explicit indigos, barely pale blues, vague, misty yellows, severe and subdued pinks, impossible violets and lavenders, farouche grays. These, and a million others, are the colors that pervade the sky and land here. Even if they are ever so softly imbuing the surface of the pale ice or snow, the color is present, and changing subtly throughout the day. Virtually everything in this landscape is a refracting surface, waiting to scatter and reflect light. Antarctica literally holds light within it. As coherent sunlight (white light) moves slowly throughout the environment here, it shimmers across and beneath the ice and snow, making everything luminous from the inside, and displaying colors that seem unimaginable.

Looking out again to the landscape as if for some clarity, I watch the deep interplay between light and crystal and find respite in its mysterious nature. Goethe reminds me, “…the highest is to understand that all fact is really theory. The blue of the sky reveals to us the basic law of color. Search nothing beyond the phenomena, they themselves are the theory.”

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Atmospheric Phenomena

Sun pillar, after a snow storm, while the sun was below the southern horizon

Sun pillar, after a snow storm, while the sun was below the southern horizon

Day 10; February 1, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 15.26˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 23.04 mph
Feels Like: -19.30˚ F

Today there were snow and wind storms all day, requiring that we stay inside. I spent most of the day writing, studying up on some of the features of my equipment, and watching the blizzard intermittently hide the mountains to the south.

I have been staying up late each night in order to watch the sun do its now nightly dip below the horizon. Tonight’s sunset was quite a treat, and I experienced my first sun pillar.

A sun pillar is a beautiful atmospheric phenomena that displays a strong gleam of sunlight that can either be cast directly upward or downward, perpendicularly to the horizon. They are generally formed when the sun’s rays are reflected and scattered by millions of tiny, airborne ice crystals. These crystals are plate-like in shape, often associated with thin high-level clouds, and therefore have a large surface area upon which the sun’s light can reflect.

Sun pillars are most often a sunrise or sunset phenomena, and since during this time of year where I am in Antarctica the sun sets at about midnight and then rises again by 2am, the sun pillar I experienced this evening lasted well over an hour.

With the base quiet and most people asleep, I was able to sit up in the window over my desk and observe this wondrous event, for its duration, in solitude.

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Living on Ice

SANAE Station, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica

SANAE Station, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica

Day 8; January 30, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 15.26˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 22.82 mph
Feels Like: -18.97˚ F

My first day at SANAE felt a bit like the first day of school. The splendid, albeit institutional, accommodations coupled with the rules and safety regulations orientation had me oscillating between the pure excitement of being were I was, and the childhood irrational fear that that arose when the first school bus of the year peaked around the bend. But the mood of the base, and of the fantastic people who live and work here, was quite jovial, welcoming, and intimate. With only 80 people on the base, it was hard to feel like an outsider for very long.

The base is run on cooperation and collaboration—it wouldn’t function otherwise. We all have cleaning duties to help distribute the general workload of running such an immense undertaking in the middle of the lonely continent. Upon waking, I made my way down to the dining room for breakfast. Ross Hofmeyr, the Base Commander for the 2008 season, which is just coming to an end, very apologetically said that he was putting me on the morning’s schedule for what’s known as “skivvies,” and my task was to clean the dining room throughout the day’s meals. Having only had 5 hours sleep after the long day of travel, I was a bit downhearted to take on a project. Yet, there is really nothing like cleaning to make you feel like you are a part of a place. Thus, as I set about straightening cereal boxes and learning the particular ways to wash dishes and floors in an environment that requires conservation of water and reduction of waste, I felt myself settling in to my curious new home on the ice.

Water consumption and waste production are very serious matters in Antarctica. The Antarctic Treaty has very strict rules as to how to exist sustainably in this environment with as little contamination as possible. Absolutely everything you bring to the continent must come back out with you. This includes all trash, food scraps, and even human excrement. Grey and black water are processed here in the waste facility in the lower level, and undergo normal treatment before they are stored in large containers that are marked “Return to South Africa”. They will be dragged by tractor to the coast, loaded onto the ship there in late February, and brought back to South Africa for final disposal.

Water here is melted from the snow around the base by a smelting machine that people here call “the smelly.” Everyone must volunteer their time to shovel snow into the hole at the top of the machine, as this can only be done manually. Our sole source of water is through this process, so if winds are high and conditions make it difficult to accomplish this task, then we go on high water alert, and no unnecessary water consumption is allowed. In normal water availability, showers are still limited to every other day, and laundry requires sign up days in advance, and is limited to 4 people twice a week.

The base itself is a three-segment structure, denoted by the letters A, B and C , all of which are connected by indoor links. Sleeping quarters are upstairs in the A and B blocks, and science labs and research offices are on the main floor below. C block is mostly the utility rooms, the generators, and at the far end is the helicopter pad. But there is also a library, a pool hall, a bar, a sauna, a media room, a gym, and, of course, wireless internet throughout the base. Homemade meals (although all are fashioned from frozen or canned foods) are served 3 times a day, but then there is also “pie” at 10:30am (always fresh made!) and “tea” at 4pm. For those who think I’m roughing it, I must confess that as long as I’m up here at the main base, I cannot claim anything of the sort. Our mobile base, however, will not be so well endowed with amenities.

The first order of business after my cleaning stint was setting up our offices. A long 24 foot desk built into the wall would be long enough to accommodate all four of us ITASC crew. As I started pulling out my almost 80 pounds of electronic gear, I was stopped suddenly by the view out my two windows. I have the far corner of the building, and so I see both the easterly and southerly directions.

Realizing that I was never going to get used to the breathtaking landscape, I just sat a while and watched as the wind carried the top layer of unconfined snow up the long incline. Things that happen here seem to be somehow imbued with a sense of infinity. The longer you watch, the deeper into time you go.

ICEPAC, our mobile field base

ICEPAC, our mobile field base

In the afternoon we all four piled onto a skidoo and headed to ICEPAC, our mobile base 1 kilometer away down the gently down-sloping ice field behind SANAE base. Firstborn, with the generous help of many people from the base, had already erected the geodesic structure and the tarps and initial insulation were intact. The design is incredible—the slightly oblong shape, and the manner in which it is secured under the snow and ice below, keeps it completely steady and stable. The black outer layer and even the first layers of insulation keep it substantially warmer than the outside air.

We checked the wind generator and the solar panels, as well as the weather station, and then tried out our fancy ice saws. Amazed at how easily they slice through the packed snow and ice, we cut the first few blocks in only a couple of minutes—we would be able to construct an igloo in no time at all! After picking the igloo site, which would become the outhouse for our mobile base, we laid down the first two slabs and then promptly sat down on the ice to have a beer.

The interesting thing about drinking a beer outdoors in the Antarctic is that the longer it takes you to drink it, the colder it gets. As with anything here, if it is exposed to the open air, it drops in temperature rapidly. At first we had put them in the snow to try to chill them, but even after 30 minutes they were still only just slightly cooler than room temperature—because the snow actually insulates the bottle.

Hurrying back to SANAE to catch the end of dinner, and then back to our office to catch up on emails, I prepared for what would be my first art-making in Antarctica. At this time of year here, the sun descends toward the southern horizon at around midnight and then rises again shortly thereafter. Tonight was the last night that it didn’t actually fall below the horizon, so I wanted to document the light in eight directions: north, south, east, west, northeast, northwest, southeast, southwest. The light would be slightly different in intensity and color depending on what direction I faced, and I wanted to capture the full surround of this phenomena.

To accomplish this piece, I decided to shoot it from the rooftop of the SANAE base, where I would have the best 360-degree view of the horizon. The panorama was remarkable up there, and the clouds and snow mist in the distance created an incredible array of warm sunset colors, mostly in the pink hues, although I did see a bit of subtle lavender and hot orange as well. The snow seems to soak up the hues, and in fact requires that I reconsider something I said in my very first blog, when I was imagining coming to Antarctica. I said that my mind was abound with all the possible permutations of white. Yet now that I’m here experiencing the light as it changes minute by minute, I realize that I’ve, in fact, seen almost no white in Antarctica. Every surface of snow and ice is suffused with the ambient colors of the sun’s rays refract through the air particulate and ice crystals—everything white, holds light.

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Encountering the Sublime

The Sun shining through blowing ice crystals as our airplane landed at SANAE Station

The Sun shining through blowing ice crystals as our airplane landed at SANAE Station

Day 7; January 29, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 15.3˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 22.82 mph
Feels Like: -18.97˚ F

Yesterday morning, I awoke to a wild wind and intense anticipation. After a quick shower, I put on the first layers of gear, looked over the rest of my bags, making sure all was accounted for. My phone rang, and Thomas said the flight was confirmed and he’d be over straight away. Just enough time for a quick coffee, checkout, and then off we went to fetch Alfons and head to the airport.

The flight departed from the Cape Town International Airport, and the television monitors listing departures did in fact say “Antarctica” and indicated we would be departing from Gate B1. Although procedures seemed predictable, we were far from being a normal flight. With hand-written tickets we were ushered by the staff of ALCI (Antarctic Logistics Centre International), a Russian operated organization, straight through passport control, quick security, and then off to our gate.

The Ilyushin 75-TD converted Russian cargo plane was remarkable. A projection screen hung at the front displaying our flight information, normal airline seats were bolted to the floor to create a cabin-like feel, but then all around were the signs that this was not a luxury aircraft, but a rugged work-horse meant for utility.

Exposed pipes and insulation, wires and cables, and the Russian text hand painted on various instruments all combined to make one feel that we were in some sort of a time capsule. In an effort to make the space feel more habitable, huge flags from many of the countries who do heavy research in Antarctica and are members of the Treaty, lined the walls, bringing bright color and and a sense of unity.

The flight to Antarctica, despite some of my fears of turbulence, was in fact smoother than my flight to Cape Town. And the crew and staff of ALCI were masters of making our journey more comfortable. Sandwiches, coffee, snacks, juices, fresh fruit and chocolates were served throughout the flight, the beautiful nature programs by David Attenborough were projected onto the screen. Best of all, we were allowed to go down and up to the two flight decks at the cockpit (the second lower deck had window views below the aircraft, so you could see directly downward).

Arriving 6 hours later at NOVO Base, I stepped off the airplane and put my feet onto the ice of Antarctica. Words do little to express the exhilaration I felt. After four years of hard work and pushing steadily uphill to get the project even this far, sometimes against severe obstacles, my heart soared with a sense of accomplishment and gratitude. This beautiful vast frozen landscape is indeed the one I’ve been dreaming about. I fell immediately in love with Antarctica—in a strange sense, it felt like home.

The rest of the afternoon and evening were spent base-hopping in order to reach our ultimate destination, SANAE Station. From NOVO we were flown in a smaller aircraft to Neumeyer, which took about two hours. The flight was intensely gorgeous, and became even more so the closer we got to the German Base, which is right off the coast. From the plane, I could see huge icebergs floating close to shore, some of them the size of lower Manhattan.

We also passed over the second largest glacier in the southern hemisphere, called Jutulstraumen, which feeds the Fimbul Ice Shelf (120 miles long and 60 miles wide). The landscape changes discernibly when you fly over a glacier, and the world below looks unlike anything I have ever seen in a photo. The vast ice field suddenly seems to push upwards, bulging slightly, and is marked with rhythmic striations, geometric cuts, shimmering patterning, and a sense of enormity (both in surface area and in depth) that matches the Grand Canyon, or even deep space.

The only natural reaction I could manage when I saw this glacier was to cry. Nothing had ever seemed so beautiful, so powerful, so rare. Completely taken over by the emotion of the moment, I could not help but feel again the sense of urgency I’ve had from the first moments of initiating this project all those moons ago. How can I bring this back—this deep connection, this incredible nature, this extraordinary continent? How can we protect this unparalleled place?

At Neumeyer, we had some time to explore the base while they unloaded crates and passengers and refueled the plane. There is a new structure being built at Neumeyer, because the old one, which sits far below the ice’s surface, is sinking farther into the glacier it rests within as the ice moves out toward the sea. Descending into the base, you can literally feel the weight of the ice around you, the solid mass providing insulation and protection from the cold and wind.

Just a short walk from the entrance to the base is an artwork by German artist, Lutz Fritsch. The piece, titled “Bibliothek im Eis” (Library in the Ice) is a wonderful and surprising work. While the library itself is functional, in the sense that it has books, and provides a space to read them, the installation is in fact far more than what you see initially. The piece is a tangible experience of solitude, time and isolation.

As we took to the air again, heading now to our ultimate destination, I could not help reflect on how humans have attempted to normalize our being here, in spite of the starkly inhospitable environs. Looking at all we must do in order to survive in Antarctica, the question lingers: should we be here at all?

Our arrival at SANAE was an initiation into the extreme weather that is possible here. Just as we began to approach the base, a massive wind storm blew in, and I could see the snow blowing quickly at about a foot off the ground, floating over the landscape like river water over rocks. The runway had been cleared that morning, awaiting our flight, but the wind had been coming from a different direction then. The pilot tried to land four times, and had to ascend each time at the last minute for fear that the strong winds blowing at the plane sideways would tip the wings as he attempted to touch the ground.

In the end, the pilot had to land without a runway, making his own in order to accommodate the fast changing winds. We touched ground, slid on the plane’s skis until finally coming to a halt. The warm light from the low sun shown through the whirling snow, and the world outside looked like thick luminosity.

The cold does indeed follow the wind, and descending from the plane, I found myself putting on the remainder of my gear. I could hardly see anything in front of me, except refracting light bouncing off the blowing, airborne ice crystals. With visibility closing in rapidly, and the base still a kilometer’s drive away, efforts were made to quickly load the sleds which were attached to skimobiles, and go. The wind was painfully biting as we raced up to the station to beat what would be white out conditions in mere minutes.

Entering the base, the warmth of the inside immediately won out over the cold, and as I took off the 40 or so pounds of gear I had on, I began to realize that the SANAE station was designed to bring comfort to an otherwise uninhabitable environment. Anchored to the top of a gorgeous rock mountain, with shear cliffs that fall into the snowy landscape 600 feet below, and look out across a pristine landscape of ice fields and mountains, the bulbous and colorful structure feels a bit like a space station. Lacking almost no amenity, it is indeed a welcome respite after a long journey, and the forbidding weather outside.

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Wonderstruck

Day 6; January 28, 2009; Flight to SANAE Station, Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 19.4˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 26.17 mph
Feels Like: -19.85˚ F

Today, I do not have words.
I must show you…

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