Steve's Incident (rockfall)

Hi all,
I know Steve’s incident is old news at this point, but also that the information provided was a bit thin. This is to satisfy the curiosity of a wide range of people from those with zero interest/background in climbing but an interest in the human aspects of this event, to those curious as to how these kinds of incidents unfold (how decisions are made) and those who already know what to do and are curious as to how it went for us. It is difficult to write to such a wide range of people without boring everyone to a certain degree. Argh.

It was October 9th, his birthday, and we had just climbed the classic super-great crack “Outer Space”, a 6-pitch route on Snow Creek Wall near Leavenworth in central Washington. It took an hour and a half to walk in. We expected more sun than we had and were cold for much of the time.

At the top we put the ropes away and walked and scrambled down the descent “trail”, helmets still on. The guys who followed us up the climb, and who had gotten to know Steve, had recently passed us. There was no indication of goats being above us and no rocks had fallen. We were getting close to the base of the descent, moving down a steep narrow little gully with Steve about 10’ in front of me. The guys had just finished a 20-25’ rappel and had left their rope hanging through the bolted anchor for our use.

Without a warning sound, a soccer ball sized rock appeared in the air about a meter away from Steve and heading toward him. It did not come down the gully I was still in but from the cliff to our left. Instantly “ROCK!!” erupted from my lungs but of course it was too late and the rock impacted the side of Steve’s back. As he crumpled onto the gravel-covered sloping rock surface, I yelled to the guys below “CATCH HIM!!”, as if they could in any way, followed immediately by “HELP HIM!!”. Steve, looking calm but confused, was clawing for something to grab, seemingly in slow motion, but there was nothing.

Later he described realizing he was being pushed, wondering why he was being pushed, and ‘why won’t it stop’.

It was surreal watching him disappear over the edge. It happened too fast for fear, I just had the sickening awareness that this was serious, that it has finally happened. And that I needed to get down to him without knocking more rocks on him or messing up my own rappel set-up and getting hurt myself (and landing on him).

As I rappelled over the lip I could hear him moaning, a good sign at least for now. I saw that one of the guys was holding Steve’s head to stabilize his spine, but I was dismayed to see blood coming from his mouth. As I got closer I saw that the blood was originating from his cheek instead; a significant relief.

This fellow, Brian, is a recently certified EMT, yay. However, he instantly turned the scene over to me although my certification, Wilderness First Responder, is lower than his. With the extent of my training over many years and field experience, I was happy to take the lead role especially as I was already well into Response Mode.

Brian had determined that Steve knew his name and that it was his birthday, but not location, who we were, or what had happened. Steve asked the latter questions again and again and we answered again and again. Meanwhile, I looked for immediate life-threats and assessed his injuries beyond the obvious concussion. His helmet has a dime-sized dent over his ear. His ribs, his chief complaint, were super painful but he was not bleeding from them. A concern was a broken rib puncturing his lung so we carefully monitored his breathing. We essentially ignored his painful swelling ankle for the time being. His respiration and pulse were in the reasonable range and remained stable throughout. He spit pieces of tooth into his hand.

Steve saw the rappel rope still hanging and reached out to hold hit, frequently staring hard at his hand on the rope. Later he said he thought the rope helped ground him in where he was, what was going on. It was maybe 15-20 minutes before he had a good grasp on where he was and what happened though he still doesn’t remember the incident.

Brian’s partner Eric ran to the base of the route we had climbed to retrieve all of our packs. These guys, unlike Steve and I, had brought their phones. Steve had thought we wouldn’t have reception; I had no excuse not to have my phone. I had simply chosen not to bother bringing it; lesson learned.

The first 911 call went in at 5:31pm, about 10 or 15 minutes after Steve fell.

As soon as he was stable enough, I got Steve’s permission to take photos and continued through his hospital stay. This was both for documentation to help us later assess what happened, what we did and when, as well as for Steve to have to tell his story. Clearly this would be a major learning experience for all of us. It turned out that everyone involved in the evacuation was interested in copies of the photos (as long as Steve gave his permission, which he has).

An overhead sound drew my attention. Fifty feet above us, three mountain goats peered down upon us, surveying the results of their sloppy footwork. Not much we could do to get them to leave. They aren’t hunted in this area, are curious, and hang out around people because we supply salt, a nutrient lacking in their diet. In other words, they often follow you around if they think you’re about to pee.

Steve was on somewhat of a ledge: not in a place where we could effectively manage his injuries (not to mention protect him/us from further rockfall). Despite the rib pain, for other reasons it seemed reasonable to see if we could clear his spine. He really kept his composure throughout this whole incident. We took our time with assessing his spine, Brian still holding Steve’s head. We waited until Steve’s feedback was reliable and I did the assessment exactly by the book. I also made sure he understood the potential consequences of moving him if he had a spinal fracture. The exam revealed that his spine was fine.

Steve had previously broken ribs in a motorcycle accident, and recalled how easy it was to panic and make things worse; he knew the importance of steady controlled breathing and staying relaxed in minimizing respiratory distress. He kept his head together and with a lot of help from the 3 of us, was able to very slowly move himself down to a flat spot 3m away, better protected from rockfall, where we situated him on empty backpacks for insulation. We elevated his very swollen ankle and other foot to help minimize shock. At this point about 45 minutes had elapsed from the fall.

We did our best to insulate him including draping the ropes across him which he reported as helping a lot. By this time Steve was quite coherent and verbally involved with his care though talking was painful and required more energy than he had to spare. Steve had the great idea to cover his face to warm the air he was breathing. Everyone remained relatively positive and upbeat, feeding off each others’ light tone. I knew Steve was not about to die, that it was just going to be a long haul out and healing. It turned out that the guys, having seen Steve land next to them, weren’t at all sure that he would be ok, but hid it well. Steve had whiplash so couldn’t move his head and continued to experience severe pain in his ribs. Darkness descended as did the occasional small rock from above as the goats went about their business.

We heard from dispatch that there would be a delay in responding to our call because of a search already in progress and a motorcycle accident. Turned out that a speeding motorcyclist had crossed the double yellow line and crashed into the side of the emergency vehicle responding to our call. Gulp.

The dispatcher ruled out a helicopter because there wasn’t a suitable landing zone. We later found out that the county doesn’t have a helicopter equipped for short-hauling (a cable hung below for the litter for when there isn’t a landing zone). Locally only the military can do that, but the helicopter would have had to hover dangerously close to the rock wall above, a risky maneuver in daylight. As it was night and Steve was not facing loss of life or limb, the military possibility wasn’t appropriate.

By this point our main concerns were shock and hypothermia. After careful consideration of the details, the four of us decided that Brian and Eric would head back to the cars to get insulating materials, enough for us all to be there through the night if it came to that. They left 2 ¼ hours after Steve’s fall.

In addition to discussing logistical details, including that I was supposed to fly to Antarctica from home, in a week, Steve gave me a list of people to call and told me where his insurance card was… everything we could think of to organize until we could talk again in the hospital. It was way too early to make any decisions regarding me going to the ice and I did my best not to fixate on that during the hike out. Conveniently this happened Friday night so I had the rest of the weekend before the office opened to see how injured he really was and how much help he would need in the coming weeks or months.

As he lay there feeling cold, Steve’s muscles slowly tightened up. This increased his pain when he tried to move at all and he spent a lot of the time zoning out to deal with it all.

About 2.5 hours later, the guys returned and we covered Steve in 3 sleeping bags and pulled on warm parkas ourselves… ahhh. Steve really warmed up. While waiting, we exchanged contact info with the guys and organized for the craziness expected when the team arrived.

At 10:40 the team arrived. Dr. Mark, who is also a climber, checked Steve over and soon whipped out the needles, shooting Steve up with an anti-nausea drug and a bit of morphine. Mark was great and later visited Steve in the hospital and then helped us out later with some other logistics.

I was pleasantly surprised that the team indeed welcomed my help for the evacuation. This is not necessarily the case with all Search and Rescue teams. Although some members had a technical background, it turned out that this team, all volunteer, hasn’t been extensively trained in technical rescue. I started out hanging back, watching and respecting their jurisdiction, but soon found myself drawn into an integral role.

With the Search and Rescue team I worked on in Antarctica, I received a lot of (and gave some) training for just this kind of situation. I felt super fortunate to both have had the training, to be here, and to get to work with such great, hard-working, and non-ego guys. As well, Eric and Brian assisted us through the very end and were a tremendous help, including building the initial anchor in the rock with their own gear. We really could not have had a more committed and easy to work with Mountain Rescue group (plus 3 deputies from the Sheriff’s office).

It was particularly important to make sure Steve was packaged well to minimize the rough-ride hell he was going to experience on what promised to be a very long evacuation. Again, I felt grateful for my training as well as for the confidence provided by having the skills.

I wrote earlier that it was 7-8 pitches (sections, often up to a rope length), but in hindsight I count fewer, more like 6. In my late night stupor I counted the several intermediate anchors for the traverses and a couple lower-out belays to control the litter until it was sufficiently below my main belay (anchors were often hard to come by so we had to take what we could find). There was only one real spot of fourth class, steep/exposed enough to make one think. Otherwise it was all scrambling or even walking terrain on a narrow exposed loose path for some of the traverse sections. Others rigged hand-lines for the team members to hang onto. At one point we actually needed to raise the litter a distance so I got to switch from a lower to a raise, another skill I’d practiced in trainings.

Down by the creek we used the rope in the steep burned-out trees mostly to give the litter attendants something to lean against and balance on while managing an unwieldy and heavy load in awkward terrain. It was a TON of work for the litter attendants, wrestling the litter over rocks and logs, for many hours, while I had it easy operating the main rope and setting up anchors. Knowing how hard it is to manage a litter, I really appreciated not to having to help and super thankful for everyone’s efforts. They sloshed through the cold muddy creek with the litter while I got it easy: crossing on a log.

By 4:30am we had reached the trail, where the team had stashed a wheel that attaches to the base of the litter making it much easier to get down the trail. I winced upon seeing the wheel: it wasn’t the wide burly off-road type I’ve seen before, but more of a glorified, small, mountain-bike tire. It would give Steve a rougher ride, but, well, it’s what they had and I was sure glad they were there.

The whole ride shook the daylights out of Steve and no doubt contributed to muscle spasms and pain, but he knew that was the deal so just sucked it up and didn’t complain whatsoever. One of the team members used the word ‘stoic’.

Two hours later, at 6:30am, Steve was loaded into the ambulance and was taken to a hospital in Wenatchee.

The guys and I finished sorting gear. I made the phone calls Steve had requested and headed back to the campground to pack up our camp. Getting in his car without him, I had the sudden feeling that “this trip isn’t any fun anymore”, realizing I had even enjoyed being in the car with him. How quickly things can change. During the evacuation, knowing that Steve was going to be ok I could appreciate getting to actually use some of the skills I’ve learned. But with that over now, the reality began to sink in.

When I got to the hospital, the first thing Steve said was “When does goat hunting season open?”.

In contrast to the number of pitches I initially reported, I may well have short-changed Steve on how far he actually fell in my effort to avoid the common hyperbole, conscious or otherwise, making accidents sound more dramatic than they were.

My initial assessment, from the bottom of the rappel looking up, was 25’, but then I decided 20’ to be conservative. Remembering the effect of fore-shortening, my view when I first looked down to Steve and Brian, and looking at the photos, I think it was more like 25’ that he fell over the vertical drop. This is in addition to the 8-10 feet he slid down before he dropped out of my sight, so he launched over the lip with some momentum.

He landed so suddenly and completely, with no shock-absorbing tumbling, that Brian and Eric were absolutely sure he was going to have more severe injuries than he did, thinking people don’t survive falls like that. Later, a friend who saw the photos, a SAR team member elsewhere, went wide-eyed when he saw the rocks Steve landed upon. Steve was very lucky he didn’t land on the worst of it. Dr. Mark later said that people who fall 30’ have a 50/50 chance of survival. In all likelihood Steve would not have survived without his helmet. Wear your helmet.

That afternoon he went into surgery for his ankle which had swollen substantially in the preceding 22 hours. He has a spiral tibia (and fibula) fracture starting at the base of his tibia (shin). Five screws pulled the base of the tibia back together. The surgeon determined that the spiral fractures should heal fine without a plate as long as Steve doesn’t catch and twist his foot or fall in the coming month. Given time, his moderate concussion and numerous fractured ribs will heal on their own. The ribs are the most painful and its taken awhile for him to be able to breathe normally or move around much. The jaw fracture doesn’t need wiring or anything dramatic. The broken molar doesn’t seem to have included the nerve very much so thankfully he can wait until he can open his mouth more before going to a dentist or oral surgeon. The only painless injury was nine stitches under his chin.

He spent almost 2 ½ days in the hospital; he was really beaten up all told. They knew we’d been camping and let me stay on a cot in his room, which I greatly appreciated so I could be there with him. I have never helped someone in the hospital and was surprised at just how much there was to do in terms of direct care in addition to being a liaison with the outside world. He still had sticks in his hair and dirt all over his face from the evacuation. They only cleaned up his ankle for surgery, but I really can’t be surprised.

We were still in the hospital when Monday morning rolled around. I had realized I would have to make the decision myself whether or not go to Antarctica; he continually encouraged me to go. However, it had become rather obvious that he needed quite a lot of help and would for awhile (nor did he have great options). Although the situation was relatively cut and dry, it still took me some time to fully accept that reality. Had he been in better shape the decision would have been a lot harder. I knew what I needed to do for myself: I would not have been able to live with myself had I gone to the ice. I did this for myself at least as much for him. First thing Monday morning I made the call. It was helpful that I had to leave messages rather than having to say “No” directly to a friend for a job I really enjoy. They have all been very supportive and understanding, thankfully.

Helping him out has felt right, he’s still pretty messed up. I don’t have romantic delusions of care-taking; we’ll have our stressful times without a doubt. Lots to learn and I can see how such dynamics can be a mine-field between any two people; I’ll do my best to stay on top of that stuff as it arises. I enjoy being with him and even at his most miserable thus far he’s been tolerable. So far taking care of him has been relatively easy and of course he’ll need less assistance over time. I think getting out and doing things for myself, being active, is as important for him as it is for me both indirectly (my being happier) and directly: his not feeling that he’s trapping me, that assisting him is dominating my life. And I’ll play the tough-love role and crack the whip for him to do his physical therapy (when he gets to that point) and otherwise heal so I can climb and ski with him again sooner than later. Told him last week that “The good news is that I’m going to stay and help you, the bad news is that I’m going to stay and help you”.

Steve used to live in Bellingham so it made sense to go there for the first week until his follow-up appt a couple days ago. The orthopedist said that nothing can be done for the next 4-5 weeks other than to remain absolutely off the leg. We’ve just returned home where I can take care of him while moving along with my own projects and activities (such as rustling up winter work).

Turns out great to have gone to Bellingham. Many of his friends visited and it’s nice that he got to tell them the story in person and enjoy their company again after having moved 4 months ago for the year-long climbing trip. Brian and Eric were also in town for a few days so we got to see them a couple times. That was valuable for closure; we shared our different perspectives and thoughts during and about the incident, answered each others’ questions, and otherwise got to talk and process this event… and just hang out; they are great guys. This stuff matters, sort of our own informal and dispersed Critical Incident Stress Debrief. For the same reasons it was also nice to see Mark a couple times in Wenatchee and talk with a couple other rescuers after the incident.

Before we left home last month, Steve had signed up for a Wilderness First Responder course. This incident will certainly enhance his understanding of the curriculum! Anyone who spends real time in the backcountry should take this course. Backcountry is technically defined as only 2 hours between patient and advanced life support; we were 13 hours between despite the hike in only taking 1.5 hours. If the cost and time commitment are a deterrent, take it not for yourself as much as for your backcountry partners. This is a big deal. I cannot imagine not knowing what to do in such a situation and how horrible it would feel to not be able to help someone so in need. At the very least take Wilderness First Aid, a much shorter/cheaper course. In fact, even for those who have no interest in the backcountry, Basic First Aid, a short course (day?), could have the same value if your friend/child has injuries that could kill them before the ambulance arrives. Stay current with your certification. There is enough to know that the reinforcement and practice really make a difference; it’s how we actually learn the material over time. Enough said, I’ll get off my soapbox.

Thanks for all the comments and positive energy sent my/our way. It’s been really was nice to hear from people; thanks for checking in.

Love and Helmets, Suz

Mt. Vinson season summary

Hi my most wonderful friends and family,
As many of you know I am back from my sixth season getting paid to explore the amazing continent of Antarctica, this time from an entirely different perspective. I guided climbers on Mt. Vinson, the highest peak in Antarctica, rather than teaching/guiding scientists working for the US Antarctic Program.

Apologies for too much detail in certain areas. That's the "problem" with diverse friends: ice people want to know certain things, climbers/guides/skiers others, while some people barely know what a crevasse is. How boring would it be if all my friends were just like me. Skim and look for what might be interesting to you.

Working with a variety of people from different countries and continents was interesting in the different styles and approaches, and at times challenging with different dialects and Spanish. Fortunately the very-Scottish radio operator at Patriot Hills was patient with me as I did my best to interpret his words! Funny.

We spent two weeks in Punta Arenas, Chile getting oriented to the program, preparing gear and food, and then waiting for the wind to subside enough to get the plane in (video on Facebook). Then we spent a week putting up the large industrial tents familiar to ice-heads everywhere for the Patriot Hills (PH) main camp. This was a full-on field camp, like the one I was at last season (WAIS) with the USAP.

My previous ice experience was of course immeasurably helpful in knowing what was going on, being able to contribute, knowing what to ask and expect. Would you believe that when I went down in ’03 I didn’t know how to ride a snowmobile?!

A few days after arrival a big windstorm hit, creating white-out conditions with the blowing snow; definitely makes one think twice about going outside to the outhouse (all solid human waste is flown off-continent, in addition to all pee from Patriot Hills). This wind broke the previous record and was measured at just over 100mph. A bunch of staff sleeping tents (normal tents) were destroyed and we spent much of the windiest day trying to keep the big hut-tents intact. Welcome back to Antarctica.

A week later 8 of the Vinson guides were flown in a (Ken Borek) Twin Otter over to Vinson Basecamp at 7200’ on the Branscombe Glacier below Vinson Massif.

We spent a few days getting that camp up surrounded by steep cliffs, ridges, and beautiful icefalls that occasionally cut loose over the season causing avalanches a comfortably safe distance away. As everywhere down there, the scale is massive.

Each season there are five Vinson “rotations” about 2 weeks long each. The mountain, with only two camps, can be comfortably climbed in 5 days but often takes longer due to weather. Sometimes the rotations start late due to flight delays which are very common from Punta-Patriot Hills so the long rotation time is important. Our clients have it easy because we have gear cached at the two camps so we can just go from Low Camp to High Camp in a day rather than having to ferry a load to high camp, which takes a day, as the other groups do. Everyone drags a sled to Low Camp so there isn’t any load-carrying to that camp, we just have lighter loads (yay!). The fixed lines (1200m worth of 35-40 degree snow) preclude hauling sleds to High Camp. This slope is the steepest part of the whole climb though the summit ridge involves a negotiating a wee bit of exposure and third class rock.

ALE’s sub-company ANI (Adventure Network Inc, whom they bought out and expanded in ’03) has their own/our clients. ALE is relatively new and growing super fast; much is being worked out. Like Exum, numerous owners adds to the complexity. A very interesting and dynamic time to be involved.

ALE also wholesales the logistics (mostly air transportation) to other, normal guide companies (like Alpine Ascents). That is the “Logistics” in Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions”: ALE. These companies supply their own guides and gear and many of our guides first came down with one of these companies and we all have friends working for them.

Some of the companies come from, uh, “less developed” guiding cultures. I have a photo of a guided group taking a snack break on the glacier. The guide and client very close behind him on the rope were sitting right in the middle of a snow bridge over a large crevasse (big crack on glacier). The other client was sitting on the edge of the crevasse. Once I was over my shock I asked the guide whether he knew he was sitting on a bridge. He assured me he did. What does one say to that? This was before I had a handle on the bigger issues that we as rangers are dealing with. Now I would know what to say!

Some of the Antarctic Treaty nations do not want ANY recreation in Antarctica (the US is not among these) and ALE’s permit to operate down there comes with heavy responsibility to basically, not f**k up, as in have someone die on the mountain whether or not it is an ANI client, whom we directly control as guides or an ALE-contract-company whom we try to influence as rangers. Maybe we don’t have so much control over clients: recently one sneaked away at “night” (24-hour light) to go to the summit including crossing the crevassed glacier alone. How does a guide deal with that?! [Fortunately, twice ALE has come to the assistance of treaty nations and not yet has had to ask for help.] It’s all about credibility in the international arena where rules have no bite but it really pays to get along. On that note ALE pretends to recognize Chile’s claim to a slice of the ice because then the Chilean government will support ALE’s being based in Chile and use of the airport/airspace.

This tension is the crux: how to manage these companies who already think ALE, via ANI, is trying to push them out of guiding down there. Not the case. ALE makes a lot more money with other companies than our own clients, but how to manage it all is a work in progress. There is no other mountain like this in the world because of Antarctic Treaty requirements, like super tight envir. standards, higher than USAP field camps, which we support, and the related politics.* The whole equation can get rather tricky and was the subject of some distress and much discussion over the season.

I only worked the first three rotations so that I could get home in time to work a backcountry ski and winter ecology course here in the Tetons. I guided the first rotation (with another Exum guide, the Highly Capable Andy Tyson), worked as ranger the second rotation, mostly hauling gear around, and was Basecamp Manager for my last rotation.

The weather when I was guiding was quite cold and windy (-35-40 with constant wind at high camp, 13,200’), but we were able to get all 5 of our guys to the summit (16,000’) and back with all digits intact. I actually had a helluva time on summit day with heavy frost between the lenses of my goggles (non-removable) and some other highly annoying problems of not having my gear scene quite together. It was highly frustrating not being able to really see and the cold made the climb a lot more exhausting for everyone.

Fortunately on my ranger patrol, after establishing a rescue cache high on the mountain, I had the opportunity to not only go to the summit again, but to actually see the terrain and the spectacular view (different goggles: cheaper, ironically). The four of us climbed a new route up the central north face to the summit which sounds a lot more impressive than it actually was (Antarctica is Land of Low Hanging Fruit… if you can just get there): 4th class with 60-70 degree alpine ice topping out. It was super fun to actually feel like we were climbing, to have to pay attention and use good technique. We didn’t rope-up and we all climbed slightly different lines. Super fun. I felt great and was comfortable in addition to being able to see, so this time I summited in good style. The ‘summit pose’ photo on my Fb profile is from this second time on top.

Overall we had a diverse, dynamic, and competent little guide team, evolving with different people through the season, and lots of support from Patriot Hills, the hub of the company’s ice operations. The fly or ski-to-South-Pole and other trips all base out of PH. The Ski the Last Latitude Degree (or 2) to the South Pole trips are guided by Vinson guides as well; this year I was not assigned one but maybe next year I will be. Would be interesting to ski the Last Degree (8-10 days) and arrive at Pole and visit friends there; I would like to do one. However I don’t think I want to specialize in shuffling across the Great White Expanse into the wind, which occasionally gives people frostbite on their thighs (weird).

Vinson basecamp has nicer weather than the nearly-always-windy PH. At our little camp below Vinson (120 miles away) “bad” weather almost always means fog, rime, rarely wind, so it’s pretty luxurious esp in our personal tents which get quite warm inside during the sun’s midday high-point.

We did have a Antarctica reality-check storm at basecamp (Fb video clip), one associated with the 11-day delay in getting rotation-3 clients to the continent. The delay meant that my basecamp manager experience did not involve having any groups on the mountain but I did have lots of help and company in basecamp. When the weather was nice we went on a number of ski tours: great fun.

Skis are used en route to Low Camp during ranger patrols (not while guiding clients) and to get out of basecamp for exercise and FUN. It’s all AT (randonee), and I have essentially no experience with parallel turns other than faking it on my tele gear on the blue groomers. Not having AT boots didn’t help much, so I’m told, but next year it’s been my plan to broaden my ski skills: buy AT gear and learn to parallel turn for real and open up some new terrain for myself. But it was fun nonetheless skiing in my mtn boots as I don’t know any different and it’s simply a blast to be out gliding on snow anyway. The lack of wind at basecamp means the snow is unusually skiable, unlike 99% of the continent which is mostly flat too.

Two birds were sighted, week apart, at basecamp (I only saw one); consensus is that they were both snow petrels. These were the first birds ever seen there and it was pretty exciting. Also, we had an insect show up in the hut/tent. This too was a highlight (ok, for me at least) and I reported it with the twice-daily check-in with Patriot Hills: they appreciated it! (Victoria, who also used to work for the USAP, actually). The only thing that makes sense is that it came in as an egg or larva on the fresh…ish veggies that we once received.

PH and the Ellsworth Mountains feel far less “Antarctic” than the McMurdo Sound region although it’s actually more like most of the continent than the latter. No penguins, no seals, no skuas, no volcano, no Dry Valleys, no sea ice, and no science highlighting much of what is so special about Antarctica. Instead it feels like mountaineering (and some skiing) with an Antarctic-flair, which is plenty enjoyable in itself. However, I feel a bit bad for my colleagues for whom this is the extent of their Antarctic experience. On the flip side, I MUCH appreciate the break from the scene of McMurdo and all the politics and bureaucratic crap of such a large corporate uptight organization. Great to work for a small, responsive, committed company run by people with their heads on straight and their priorities in the right place. Refreshing!

I had a good season down there and very much enjoyed the new scene, getting to know yet more really cool people, and of course getting to play in an Antarctic alpine setting: a big change from my past down there. I anticipate returning though am also on the look-out for a USAP contract as a field mountaineer with a geology group (spread the word, my dear USAP friends); hopefully both can fit in next season.

Especially in this age of global warming, how can I arrange for a full season on the ice and still be home for a long season skiing in the Tetons?! [Don’t get me wrong, I love summer and desert climbing]. Getting to know people from different countries has opened up new parts of the world in my awareness. Where is the balance between developing a life at home here in the incredible Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem and exploring the world…on diminishing oil supplies and while increasing one’s carbon footprint. Argh. Oh yeah, then there’s the part about having a best buddy for such explorations.
Suddenly my simple life seems complex. (Yes, I know most of you, esp those with children, will want to slap me for that comment; fair enough: you are right!).

When I get home from the backcountry course I’ll post some photos at pbase.com/antarctic_suze
I hope you are healthy, still employed, and not dependent on the money you have invested.

Peace, Love, and Light to you and your family, Suz

http://www.antarctic-logistics.com/index.html

*USAP ice friends: we were told, as an aside, that no-dogs policy was not initially adopted for the environmental reasons we’ve heard (not that those reason aren’t valid). Instead Australia initiated it to one-up the US related to some other ice issue, something they wanted… some political reason that of course the US and others had to follow to maintain clout… I don’t know the details but it’s been interesting getting a broader view of how things work down there.
Many thanks to you who have sent me updates. I still feel very connected to you all and much appreciate your. Hugs to each of you.

Punta Arenas, Chile, heading to the ice

Hola amigos/as y familia,
Happy Halloween. I hope you are well.
I am in Punta Arenas, Chile on my way to Antarctica.

Funny how thrashing about with my Spanish and planning for time on the ice erodes my plan to focus mostly on my home-area life for the next few years. Traveling and working in amazing places has a way of thoroughly engaging and challenging me. But then again, so does climbing and other adventuring, just in a different way. However, my rough plans are to be home only around 8 months a year anyway, so it's not a matter of one type of lifestyle or the other. So much to experience and learn in this crazy life!

The company leadership is setting the "right" tone and saying the "right" things for the most part as well as making us feel welcome. Off to a good start. Interesting to learn a bit more about the politics involved in the Antarctic Treaty and how it's been managed over the decades. Am appreciating a view of the ice from a non-governmental/corporate perspective (not to imply that the NSF-USAP has been dishonest).

My ice background has made an incredible tremendous difference in what it feels like to start with this company. To understand the language, systems, the realities of working down there and to know what questions to ask has made this much less stressful entry than in 2003. Yee haa!

I feel at home with our team partly because I already know 3 folks from Exum and a couple others from my time in McMurdo. Our staff represents about 15 countries so it's been fun learning about different cultures and deciphering all the different dialects, accents, and phrases.

Speaking of which*, astonishingly, much of my meager Spanish has awakened after 8 years of hibernation. I love getting to actually interact a bit with patient locals and trade language-teaching with some of our Chilean staff. *ha

This company, "Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions", has several components, one of which is wholesaling Vinson trips to private guide services (such as Alpine Ascents) who then get their own clients, have their own guides, etc.

ALE also owns ANI, which "retails" Vinson climbs directly to climbers. As ALE-ANI guides we also act as rangers on the mountain, maintaining the fixed ropes, coordinating the radio communications, reminding groups of Treaty environmental requirements, relaying weather forecasts, managing the basecamp from which small aircraft (Twin Otters from the same company as the USAP uses) fly people back and forth to the main camp Patriot Hills. Seems to be the best company to guide Vinson for. This year I think we have about 135 Vinson climbers, making it the most popular trip though skiing the last latitude degree to the South Pole is also popular.

[Mt. Vinson, 16,050' high, is the reason so many people are willing to shell out $35 grand to be cold: simply because it is the highest summit on the continent, one of the "Seven Summits". Climbing the Seven Summits has become a popular goal for those of, uh, "significant" means and little time (or... skills).]

The stories that I've been hearing about some clients and what they'll hide in order to summit (frostbite, injuries, medical conditions) are a little daunting even though this company regularly turns down potential clients (who then show up on the mountain with other companies). I'm amazed how many highly-publicized "solo" ski trips have made to Pole... with a photographer or even a GUIDE along (even hauling the person part way behind a snowmobile). The photographer and/or guide somehow never show up in the photos and video distributed to the media and sponsors. How naive I am: it really should, however, be of no surprise that people bring their "stuff" with them no matter how far afield they venture. As you can well imagine, stories abound.

Patriot Hills, in addition to serving Vinson climbers, also supports other ANI trips such as people being flown to the USAP South Pole Station for a 3-hour tour and t-shirt purchasing session, and people skiing to Pole from the edge of the continent: LONG hard trips. People even fly in for the marathon run. ALE's Patriot Hills also supports numerous other private trips and governmental projects that need logistical support (some projects are science: in fact the USAP occasionally contracts with ALE).

There are only 2 penguin clients this year, so I won't be working that trip. (Also, no Ellsworth Mtns clients either). Right now I'm on for two Vinson climbs then basecamp manager, but with the changes of plans based on weather-delayed-aircraft, I know not to "expect" that to actually happen. Whatever I'm assigned, I'm sure it'll be fun and I'll learn a lot.

Patriot Hills maxes out at about 80-90 people and has a reputation as serving the best food in Antarctica. People sleep in normal tents but on nicer mattresses and there's some sort of shower facility for limited use. Laundry is sent out on the weekly flights from the large plane, the Russian Illushin-76 that ALE contracts with for flights to/from the ice. Overall it sounds much like any other large field camp I've been to, minus the science.

The idea of real recreational activities such as skiing and climbing being not only legitimate, but the goal is a bit of a mental shift... a refreshing shift. Skis as part of our work gear! (even if just for slogging around upon) There aren't much in the way of rules around personal recreation, but of course there are heavy expectations in the way in which it is undertaken... for good reason. Time and energy will the issues around recreating. It appears the Norwegian cook staff have brought kite skiing down here; I am looking forward to seeing that.

I'll spend nearly all my time, however, at Vinson basecamp with about 15 other guides (most of whom are on the mtn at any given time), and a cook(!).

I don't fly onto the ice for another week so have some time to sort out which of the local dark chocolates is worthy of taking to the ice. How is it that I visit countries that don't "do" chocolate very well?

Would you believe there's a climbing gym here in Punta?! 'Climbing gym' is a relative term, but it has half the rules and twice the character of any gym I've heard of. They get points for creativity and resourcefulness; definitely a kick... and a good work-out.

My email messages will wait for me on my Yahoo acct so feel free to send whatever you'd like, especially holiday letters with attachments, photos of you with your sweetie, family, pets, friends, and whatever your current adventures may be: re-doing the kitchen, surviving the holiday season, or getting out and about in whatever capacity. !Muchas Gracias!

On the ice I will be able to receive two emails a week to the ALE account and send out four; beyond which I will be charged. There's no internet access down there; the connection is very slow and there is only one computer for staff email anyway.

[Incidentally, I am on Facebook. I'm trying to find someone to post updates I send from the ice to this blog and then put a little note on my Facebook profile that there's an update here. If I cannot get anything posted while on the ice, I'll do so when I get home in early January.]

Love and Icy Breezes, Susan

The company I'm working for:
http://www.antarctic-logistics.com/index.html

Photo of Vinson basecamp:
http://exposedplanet.com/index.php?showimage=220

Of course, YouTube for Vinson basecamp etc etc:
http://noolmusic.com/youtube_videos/to_at_mount_vinson_base_camp_in_antarctica.php

A 2005 science expedition that flew in from McMurdo-Pole on the planes (LC-130) used over there. This year no NSF-USAP groups and only two science projects (other countries) out of Patriot Hills. But it does give one a sense of Patriot Hills, despite not being a recreational trip which is the vast majority of ALE's business:
http://mitchell-antarctica.blogspot.com/2008/01/patriot-hills.html

pbase.com/antarctic_suze photos won't be updated till January.

Humorous Spanish-to-English translation of the week: seen on a box of condoms while waiting in line at the cashier in the grocery store. That particular type of condom was described as "Sensible".
I had to think about that one for a moment and concluded that it's probably more accurate than what they actually meant.
;-)

Guiding climbers in Antarctica: something different

Hi All,
I hope this finds you savoring the cool fall days and enjoying the crunchy leaves. It's been wonderful to be around for this much of autumn for a change.

After five seasons working as a field instructor for the US Antarctic Program, I'm going south from an entirely different angle and for a much shorter season. I'm going to be guiding climbers on Vinson (one of the Seven Summits: continents), other peaks, and potentially penguin-watchers for a private company called Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions (partly British). I hear many of the clients are European. Can you believe it costs $35,000 USD to climb Vinson! And with the economy as it is...?!

http://www.antarctic-logistics.com/index.html Click on Adventure Network International, the company they bought. The Ellsworth Mtn Safari sounds like a lot more fun than Vinson; hopefully I'll get a variety of trip types.

I'll be flying through and training in Punta Arenas, Chile and working out of a large camp called Patriot Hills near the Ellsworth Mtns and Ronne Ice Shelf (Weddell Sea). Patriot Hills is much more like what one imagines when thinking of Antarctica than McMurdo is: a lot like a major USAP field camp such as WAIS. I'll be sleeping in a normal tent for the whole time which is another good reason not to be down there for six months again!

I'm looking forward to seeing a new part of the continent and a different field operation. A nice feeling to be going into their scene with so much Antarctic field experience.

They run a "Last Degree" ski expedition on which they ski the last latitude degree to the South Pole. I hope to work that trip and then get to visit my friends at Pole! That would be a kick after skiing across the Great White Expanse for however long ("Look! More snow!") One friend already promised to sneak me and my clients fresh cookies ;-)

I'll only be down for about 10 weeks which will be nice as it will allow me to work a winter ecology (and ski, avalanche) course here in the Tetons for Prescott College in January. I am looking forward to getting back to my roots and developing additional winter employment options, esp locally. I must say, however, I have mixed feelings about coming directly home from the ice rather than spending time in South America...

I'm not done with the USAP and expect to return hopefully next year as a mountaineer/guide contracted by specific science groups for the duration of their project. These would be shorter contracts and would allow for more guiding for ALE as well as home work and play.

I don't think I'll be able to post the occasional update on this blog because we'll have such limited bandwidth that normal websites won't be accessible. Because this Antarctic program is so much simpler than the enormous and complex USAP, I will have far less to expound upon so will write short messages as per last year.

This will be more the classic Antarctic experience... I'll be in the field the whole time to varying degrees.

I recently enjoyed my first fall climbing trip in years, albeit a short one. Spent almost two weeks in the Indian Creek and Moab (Utah) area enjoying delightful and challenging sandstone crack climbing. Visited with several friends in Moab, mountain biked a couple times on the famous Moab slickrock, and overall much enjoyed being out car camping and climbing again. I so love the simplicity of the lifestyle.

I hope you have a wonderful end of the year and I look forward to hearing from you sooner or later :-)

Love and Wild Winds, Suz

Kilauea Volcano Exploration

I sat on a ledge less than 50m from the action. Orange blobs of lava shot starward as ocean waves crashed into the hot lava, flowing out of sight but reflected in the tremendous steam/gas clouds rising and roiling above this violent meeting of molten earth and super-heated sea. Stunning. The photos show orange streaks, but what I saw was the actual blobs flying, some of which trailed mini-plumes of gases like meteors with streaming tails.

The sounds were vividly alive: waves crashing, lava hissing, and blobs taping lightly as they landed in front of me and faded into blackness.

I headed to Mt. Kilauea on the Big Island of Hawaii in search of hot lava, wanting to experience it up close and personal. I’d been "turned on" to live volcanoes a couple years ago on Mt Erebus in Antarctica.

I rented a hatchback and lived in it at free campgrounds, cooking farmers’ market fare on my campstove. I enjoyed a relatively cheap trip with maximum flexibility and spontaneity; totally my style.

The exact locations where lava flows on the surface change almost daily, and officials imply that more places are legally closed than actually are. I understand the importance of this for the non-outdoorsy public; however, it required a lot more work on my part.

It was a sleuthing project involving talking to as many people as possible, assessing their reliability, comparing maps (some of which aren’t current due to lava destroying and creating), learning to interpret the USGS daily volcano report, figuring out which laws were enforced and how, which sites and access points are high profile, and trying to read between the lines coming from the mouths of well-trained Park Service rangers.

The action this year is outside of Volcanoes National Park. The lava flows in hidden tubes on its way to the ocean entry points where the official viewpoint is located. It flows down a hill through a defunct housing development; only an island of forest and a couple ruins remain. To safely manage the public, the state Civil Defense provides a well-guarded official veiw-point quite a distance from the ocean entry points, open limited hours.

Being comfortable walking on loose uneven surfaces has it’s advantages, allowing one to easily use more distant access points: less obvious to law enforcement.

Choosing a legal parking spot within the park, I hiked in black clothing (camo) across an older lava flow for 2.5 hours out of the Park to get to the large tree-island in the defunct subdivision. I skirted the lower edge of the trees, admiring the many “tree molds”: holes in the lava from where it had surrounded trees before burning them up. A fleet of helicopters on flight-seeing tours, research tasks, and occasionally law enforcement demanded attention. I was trespassing and probably also breaking some other broad-brush law designed to bust terrorists like me within a quarter mile of the flow.

The increasing smells of gases, tree soot, and the cooling lava itself informed me that I was approaching the current smoldering flow. When the lava had recently flowed on the surface, the wind blew the gases and heat into the adjacent forest, scorching it and providing me fairly easy, if hot and sooty, uphill travel. More importantly, the trees provided cover for the increased number helicopters flying close above as I was adjacent to the steamy flow. I hid behind trees, dashed from cover to cover, and did my best to avoid being seen. Most pilots are renegades not likely to bust me, but I sure wasn’t willing to take any chances.

I wanted to cross the flow to confirm that there wasn’t any surface exposure along the other side. Fortunately there were pauses in the helicopter flights, so I went for it, hustling across fresh lava, some of which was nasty loose a’a lava, for my first time. It was an exciting dash through the gases along a rough and circuitous route. At certain spots the intense smell and heat suddenly increased, instantly turning me in another direction, my pulse rising as I increased my exposure time. I made it across with the same cotton-mouth feeling I get when leading hard routes!

The rainforest-thick vegetation and that awful, loose, sharp a’a lava made for a heinous descent along the far edge (ok, sandals didn’t help, but at least the socks did). My dash back across at the base of the hill, hours later, was much more relaxed because the hot lava seemed to run deeper under the surface and I had a better feel for the risk.

In hopes of finding a lava “break-out” near where it emerged from the deep, I prepared for long hikes from a basecamp into a closed area. I planned three nights to give myself enough time to try different routes in my quest. The campsite lacked water, so ahead of time I hiked in to cache four gallons, get a feel for the terrain, where exactly the trail closure began, and the amount of law enforcement coverage. Because I would have to have a camping permit, they would know I was there; what else would I be doing there for that much time?

Later I backpacked in for the blitz. Knowing I needed a lot of darkness, I went to “sleep” at 5:30pm for my 9:30pm alpine start. The moon was so bright I didn’t use my headlamp for a long time; much easier to see distant terrain silhouettes.

When I arrived at the edge of the old flows at the base of Pu‘u O‘o (a small peak along the rift ridge and source of current flow; in the photos), I was lured by the promising orange glow in the gas clouds arising from top of the ridge, appearing to reflect the hot red stuff just below. I headed straight up there, only to find that my speed dropped dramatically as I discovered what the locals call “shelly” lava, “breakable crust” in ski lingo. I felt like I was moving fairly quickly but realized that although my body was in constant motion, I really wasn’t making much actual progress. Evaluating the surface failure potential of each step, recovering balance from collapses, and dodging the weakest surfaces made for a highly circuitous, inefficient route.

As I ascended, the orange glow shifted location and I realized it had never been coming from Pu‘u O‘o, but from the break-out a good distance on the other side. I started to traverse to the far side where I knew the lava began its descent to the sea. This meant going into the gas plume, which had disadvantages… eyes stinging, a coughy feeling in my throat… potentially much worse. Depending on how intensely the wind blew, I alternated between the traverse toward the compelling orange glow, and bailing for the trees, irritatingly out of sight a mile+, where I might(??) be able to travel faster and in better air, but it would be an even longer approach (miles).

Now the rock had changed, becoming talus that frequently disintegrated, from decades of the acidic plume, when stepped upon. Slow! But finally I could see the bright orange of a lava break-out… in the far distance. At one point the glare intensified as the lava appeared to be shooting up out of the fissure. Beautiful even at a distance. Argh! How I wanted to be there!

It was getting rather obvious that I wouldn’t have time to get there and back by daylight, esp since after daybreak, I would have to take an off-trail, much slower route back the last few miles so I couldn’t be seen on the closed trail.

Eventually I made it to the trees where I found forest too dense to travel in for daytime cover (damn). I began the long traverse back on the old but solid lava, following the highly irregular lava-forest edge (circuitous, yet again), back around to where it intersected the trail I left to approach the mountain. Clouds obscured the moon, rain didn’t help, and in the faint beam of my light, I saw a hazard I hadn’t yet encountered: volcanic ash partly covering deep “earth cracks” in the underlying lava-rock, like snow covering crevasses. Hmm.

An hour after daylight I made it back to camp. Later I hiked out, having accepted that it is just too far to access the break-outs from this side. Damn! But it had been a good effort; appreciated getting a real feel for the different kinds of lava terrain here.

From a scientist on Mt Erebus, I had a name of a local volcanologist who invited me to go into the field with him and a class. I learned a lot about assessing active volcanic risks and without the fear of getting busted, thanks to Ken’s permit. It turned out that I was far more cautious than I needed to be that earlier day (no surprise).

Around 4am, Ken led us out to admire the lava “ocean entries” in their illuminescent glory. We sat admiring the flying-lava-bomb show through sunrise, at which point I could see large chunks of fresh lava floating in the water, orange in the middle and steaming heavily before cooling and disappearing. Floating steaming lava! How crazy is that?!

Soon it was time to head to a small skylight (hole in lava tube ceiling) radiating such intense heat/gases that we approached from upwind. Ken took samples of the dangling lava-cicles with a steel cup mounted on a long metal rod.

Through the skylight, you could see the flowing incandescence down in the lava tube. We threw in rocks to see the lava surface and flow rate, which otherwise aren’t discernible because of the brightness. It was amazing to watch the rocks gently received in the viscous flow, maybe flowing 4-5mph? A head-sized rock would smoothly submerge or nearly, while smaller ones rafted along peacefully in the 1800F degree flow out of sight.

On another early morning I returned to this same ocean entry. The site looked different, further out into the ocean. New lava had created new land, some of which might later break off and fall into the sea on its loose base.

I moved in pretty close, enough so that when a big wave sent a lot of incandescent blobs overhead, I reflexively went into the mode learned on the Antarctic volcano Mt. Erebus to avoid getting hit. A couple tiny blobs landed nearby… a bit too close for comfort. Very interesting location: alive and dynamic, commanding of great respect.

Then I saw it, slow moving orange nearby, intensely bright at the tip… an actual break-out, what I’d been hoping to encounter. And better yet, it was below a meter-high ledge that provided protection from the fiery heat as the lava creaked and popped and slowly oozed and crept my way. Absolutely mesmerizing. And the smell of the lava itself was even more intense than usual: a sharp metallic smell, one that stayed on my skin for a short while afterward. Fascinating to see how the fantastic shapes of cooled lava form, and how irregularly it flows, sometimes stopping in one place only to break through somewhere else where it had been slowly cooling. Clearly a lot of pressure behind the flow.

The sound alone was captivating. It truly creaked and snapped and popped and groaned; strands of glass stretching and breaking on the surface of the slow-mo flow. So alive, earth and rock being born right in front of me, uncontrollable on the big scale; the very tip of a direct conduit through the crust deep down into the mantle of the earth. ‘Twas a magical, encompassing, wildly multi-sensory experience, one I am most definitely not ‘over’.

In daylight the surface of much of this pahoehoe flow might have appeared dark, but it was in it’s vivid orange glory at this hour. It was so intensely hot that I tied a bandana around my face and worried a bit about my camera.

Many of you know that my sole goal in going to Kilauea was to stick a stick into hot lava. Finally I found the real thing, but WHERE WAS MY STICK?! How easily I could have brought one to that site, argh! Life is about improvisation, right? As the luscious lava creaked and glided just below my ledge, I quickly reached over with a rock to bang on the hot orange tip of the flow. Amazingly I had to whack it pretty hard to dent the surface. Fun!

That half hour was distinctly the highlight, but definitely not representative of my overall experience.

I met a really cool biologist who works on alien species in the Park. He had done his thesis near where I live with a scientist I know from Antarctica. Later we went for a hike and I heard about the issues, complications biological and political… as well as general local info and lore. The summary is that Hawaii has been as destroyed as anywhere on this planet because of invasive species wreaking havoc; quite a story, and much energy goes into minimizing further damage. I helped him walk his dogs in the rain and had dinner with him a couple times. It was nice to have a friend there, someone to answer questions and process my experience with.

The current volcanological excitement in Hawai’i is the recently-started gaseous eruption of a vent in the main crater on Mt. Kilauea called Halema’uma’u (got that?). It’s spewing tons of ash and toxic gases that caused the Park to close when the winds changed. Thousands of people, mostly in tour buses, had to leave. I was on a hike that day in a remote part of the Park so didn’t find out until I saw the note on my car. I was far from the gas plume, in great air at the far end of the road. I put the note back in its bag and under the windshield wiper where I’d found it, and made dinner at the back of the car. Ended up sleeping in the car right there, having concocted a reasonable story in the highly unlikely event I was found.

The next day I left the Park and went down to the eastern coast, to delightful steam caves mentioned in the guidebook I borrowed from the local library. There I met a local who directed me to a coastal state park where I could safely camp for free.

On a walk the next morning I discovered that wild coconuts do not look like the fibrous brown ones you see in a store, and that they are very difficult to open by hand. Soon I met a Hawaiian who answered my questions about how to tell if a coconut was ripe and how open one. Imua was super kind and friendly in an innocent way; a treat to hang out with. After awhile I followed him to his house where we used his giant hook to pull down coconuts. He showed me how to chop them open with a machete: MUCH easier than the rock-bang and wrestle-peel method. We spent some time opening them, drinking the “milk” inside, and getting into the ‘meat’, which was soft and slippery, a lot different than I’d seen; tastier too. It was really fun to see how coconuts develop, to get a sense of them. They were brought by the early Polynesians, but are not an overtaking, destructive introduced species.

Later I went to another coastal park and found lava tubes long enough to require two headlamps. If one died, you’d have a very difficult time trying to get back out.

Lava tubes are everywhere and super interesting; I quickly learned to always carry leather gloves and at least one headlamp in my pack. [As a precaution I made a habit of leaving my pack clearly visible from the air (when possible) just outside the cave I was exploring.] Some caves sport a variety of features created by the river of lava that once flowed within and the tremendous convective gas currents rushing across the lava and out through skylights. Over the centuries after the lava flow ceases, various microbes colonize the tubes. In some tubes you can stand and walk quite easily for a hundreds meters or more, sometimes dodging roots, maybe seeing one of the blind cricket species that evolved there, or slime molds, bacterial coatings, and minerals deposits. It’s important not to touch the features.

I was pretty motivated to check out all the variations and channels I could reasonably fit into in all the lavas tubes I found throughout my explorations. Always the question: to squeeze through and hope it will widen into another wide area? To take the risk of having to shimmy and crawl backwards, clothing snagging on everything, because the tube stayed small? Even a casual practice of yoga has many benefits.

It took me awhile to understand how the Park Service manages visitors and lava tubes. They consistently but very subtly discourage tube exploration, subtly in order to avoid drawing attention to the caves. This is for very good reason because of the fragility of the features alone (never mind the safety issues). The Park has developed a huge, nearly featureless tube through which thousands of people walk every year. In the smaller caves or narrower channels in the backcountry, I didn’t see evidence of exploration. At times I even had to temporarily move rocks to worm my way through.

One cave ended at the cliffs above the ocean, tall basalt cliffs upon which the waves slam so hard they make the rock you’re sitting on at the edge actually vibrate. The first time I felt that I almost dropped my camera while leaping away.

Anyway, big waves sent water pouring through unseen cracks in the roof of the cave I was in, but it flowed out through other cracks.

Then around the corner in a tight chamber I came upon… old human bones. Startling.

It was a burial site, of which I later learned there are many. The very incomplete skeleton was accompanied by a bit of wood ash and glass beads near the head area. The bones looked quite friable.

Much to wonder about. Who? Circumstances? When?

Deep in that tight dark cave, alone, I definitely considered the implications of disturbing (by simply being there) such a site. Hawaiian religion is alive and well; what did the volcano goddess Pele think? I didn’t touch anything nor take any pictures.

Later that day, after yet another really interesting cave and time to think about the burial site, I returned to take a more clear inventory of what I saw, wanting to remember it well.

Eventually I caught wind of the Kazumura Cave, the longest lava tube on Earth, some 40 miles, steep overall, 5 centuries old, and heavily researched as far as lava tubes go.

I paid $20 cash for a private four-hour tour through a mile long section of this cave. The guide was a guy my age living with his parents in a rural rainforest housing development over this lava tube.

Harry and his parents are absolute characters, the ultimate Mom & Pop scene. They bought the land and as they hand-cleared a place for a house, they stumbled upon an opening to this amazing cave. They educated themselves and developed it minimally with a heavy emphasis on preservation of the delicate features, some of which are very rare. Lava-falls limit how far one can easily travel up or down the cave, and they have a locked gate at their entrance, a response to vandalism.

Their tour business isn’t strictly “legal” because the cave doesn’t officially exist, or does it?… Ambiguity surrounds ownership and liability: agencies making silly and contradictory laws over who has rights, or simply ignoring caves altogether to avoid liability. But it clearly exists in the scientific world; it even has bits of marked survey tape along the walls as reference points.

The business has no real website, no email, no real marketing. The family is very protective of the cave and won’t allow groups of young kids in. These folks aren’t exactly the most, uh, “diplomatic” or “professional” in talking to would-be cave explorers who have certain expectations. Their stories are rather entertaining.

Hawaii seems to draw a lot of “independent, alternative” types, much like Alaskans but less hardy. Harry and his mom Ellouise were so unusual, opinionated, friendly, and chatty that I stayed another hour.5 just to listen.

I highly recommend the tour. Despite being very critical of academia, Harry has learned an impressive amount of geology, mineralogy, chemistry, and fluid dynamics. He has spent untold days studying the cave and consulting with endless numbers of experts who have helped him figure out how the formations were created and identifying the different biological features. I didn’t catch everything he said, but I learned a lot and had a ton of fun anyway.

A couple mongooses and even a wild pig (both extremely destructive aliens) long ago found their way into the cave… but not back out. We saw their remains, and even the outline of the pig’s body on the floor where he lied down for the last time. Wild!

Throughout the trip I’d been scoping out the details for a stealth approach of the Halema‘uma‘u crater, that new eruptive site that caused the park closure. A webcam and other instruments from the Hawaiian Volcanoes Observatory, overlooking the crater, keep careful watch of the eruption. Someone is on duty all night, discretion is advised. I developed a plan: a parking place and approach other than the obvious sneak-access favored by most scofflaws (locals).

Fortunately, my skills for running around in the dark, with minimal headlamp use, figuring out off-trail routes were improving. Route-finding is a lot harder when one needs to avoid the use of a light and there aren’t many large-scale land forms to navigate from.

Hidden in black clothing, I found the balance between being upwind, out of plume, and somewhat out of sight of the observatory, as I positioned myself at the crater rim overlooking the fiery pit 400 feet below. Once again, the sounds were fantastic: a loud, deep, irregular whomphy breathing as the crater coughed out clouds of ash and nasty acidic gases like sulfur dioxide and hydrogen sulfide. Occasionally I could peer down into the upwind end of the pit just enough to admire the interior wall illuminated by the molten magma lake hidden by its own incandescence and glowing plume.

It’s powerful to experience landscapes in a multi-sensory, all-encompassing, intimate way. So real, so engaging; full presence… our planet in all it’s glory.

Then for a moment, the wind shifted and gave me a lungful of visceral comprehension of how all those people died in 1790 when a plume engulfed them. As I quickly headed upwind from the toxic gases, I was abruptly stopped by burning eyes accompanied by the far scarier sensation of burning lungs. It was merely one second’s worth, one breath, before the wind pushed the plume back. Because of its brevity I was grateful for the experience; a sharp reality check on volcanic hazards.

I do believe that now and then, one has to put a metaphorical toe, just a toe, over the edge of any given hazard to feel out where that edge actually is, to understand the risk on a gut level, not simply intellectually. This is known as getting experience, real experience, the kind one doesn’t get under the protective wing of the Park Service. Or a guide.

All and all it was an amazing 3 weeks. I learned a ton and had a blast.

Photos at pbase.com/antarctic_suze

Huge deep field camp, SAR call-out

Hi all,

Happy Belated New Years; can you believe we’re almost through the first decade of the new millennium?

I spent Christmas and New Year’s at a deep field “camp”. It’s so large, 60 people, and so well outfitted (3 cooks, full industrial kitchen, showers, internet, hard-shelled buildings) that it’s more of a station than a camp. I hear it’s bigger than the stations of all the other Antarctic nations and it’s larger than the US station Palmer on the Antarctic peninsula . Maybe they just call it a camp because it’s seasonal and temporary.

It’s located on the West Antarctic Ice Sheet (WAIS is the camp name) and it’s a long term (7-10 years?) ice core drilling project on the Great White Expanse (ie nothing but snow and sky all around). West Antarctica is of great interest in this time of climate change and this location was chosen for the ice having a “high resolution”, meaning a lot of ice representing each year so an unusual amount of data can be extracted from it.

The high resolution ice core also means it snows a lot there. This year in general has been characterized by consistent unstable weather. As many flights (helo and plane) have been cancelled/postponed as have gone on schedule and major changes have been forced on many projects. Such is Antarctica .

A highlight of my season was being at WAIS for the densest white-out I have experienced down here. People routinely refer to storms in which “you cannot see your hand in front of your face”. This, however, I believe is complete bunk. The only time that is true is in caves or in the deep forest on a cloudy new moon night. However, it doesn’t have to be that intense to be problematic!

I helped lead a group out to the tent area beyond the end of a flag-line. It turned out, that making a human flag-line beyond the real flags, toward the tents, didn’t work. We had to have people only about 20-25’ apart to make sure we could see them often enough to be sure we wouldn’t lose anyone. Elizabeth and I were out at the end and had too much time when we couldn’t see anyone or anything else, so we aborted that plan and had everyone return to the main buildings where everyone spent the night.

The coolest part was the static electricity that the wind created (measured 58mph tops). In my damp leather gloves I got a good static shock every time I touched another person: that was novel! The other funny thing was that when someone opened the upwind door of the buildings (downwind doors drifted in), the wind blew in so hard that sometimes the pressure made our ears pop.

I was there to support a much smaller multi-year project just getting started. A team from Penn. is looking at the Thwaites Glacier grounding line. This glacier puts out more ice than any other on the continent and whether the grounding line, from which it extends out onto the ocean, is glacial till (loose) or solid rock has much to do with how the glacier is likely to respond to warming temperatures (ie how fast it cuts loose and flows out). Much of West Antarctica is actually below sea level so rising oceans stand to de-stabilize the already dynamic and active ice of this lobe of the continent. East Antarctica , which is twice as large, appears far more stable and the ice rests mostly on ground above sea level.

The team I was working with was going to do a seismic survey to assess the rock (ie explosives) and place a couple dozen differential GPS receivers on this enormous glacier to track movement rates as related to tides. We were basing out of the WAIS camp before actually going camping on the Thwaites Glacier. It turned out that the crevasses on the lower Thwaites extend a lot further up than the satellite imagery suggested, so we had to select camp a lot further up than they expected/wanted. The camp and work area we chose was entirely crevasse free which obviously facilitates their work. On the other hand, in helping them choose this logical location, I put myself out of work. Damn. (On the other hand, roped-snowmobile travel for crevasse terrain is a sketchy activity at its safest). At least I did get to help install all of the GPS receivers over 5 Twin Otter flights in 2 days; that was fun.

Most of our time at WAIS involved being on weather-hold for flights. Recently, use of the Basler, the DC-3, ended for the season due to an incident during take-off from a remote site. No one was hurt, but the plane is still out there (my high school classmate was onboard so I’ll have to get the real story from him sometime). They’ve built a camp at it to fix it so they can fly it out soon. This plane was to be our put-in plane, so its temporary demise put us and other projects even further behind. After getting back from WAIS, I was repeatedly scheduled to fly out there to run the ground penetrating radar over a section of the glacier to make sure it was crevasse free so they could land a LC-130 (“Herc”, big) there to put in a recovery camp. After weather cancelled the flight for the 6th consecutive day, they changed plans because it was just getting too late, and used the small Twin Otters. What a scene, (what a weather year!).

If there’s one thing one learns here, its flexibility, to be able to go with the flow, to accept the current permutation of the plan without stress or expectation. “Tentative” is THE operational word down here even more than usual. I don’t even ask many questions any more. By the time someone finds the answer, the plan has changed again anyway. I just wait, show up when told, and when I hit the ground, I know what to do: that’s my scene. They pay me the same to wait as to actually do something.

Anyway, the down time at WAIS was wonderful, in fact I think it’s why I’m not burned out or overly exhausted now. I shoveled a lot of snow to earn my keep, but otherwise read a lot, worked on personal computer projects, skied a bit, and did some yoga. It really was much needed R&R, esp as I arrived here August 20th, well before my usual early October arrival.

So 16 days at WAIS constituted my field time this season unless something magically appears as the season winds down. This is a radical change from previous years, esp last year when I had an inordinate amount of (real) field time partly filling in for an injured colleague. I was the sea ice person this year and worked on the sea ice a lot, but the project that was considered at the ice edge wasn’t actually at the edge this year so we didn’t see the sea animals they did last year. Definite bummer.

Many people spend their entire seasons trapped in McMurdo: I dare not to complain. (Or am I?)

On the other hand, no way would I sign up for such a job. How freakin’ spoiled am I?! Someone slap me, quick!

Every season has been different; the variety has kept it interesting. I have made the most of being in town in terms of yoga, working out, skiing, ice skating, and riding my bike... all of which are rewarding. Obviously I have not been spending time emailing. That’s a lot easier, as many of you know, when one’s job doesn’t include time in front of a computer. (Yeah, slap me again.)

Seems NSF is funding more and more enormous (and long-term) projects: WAIS, another massive seabed drilling project called ANDRILL, a neutrino capturing project at the South Pole (called ICECUBE), and a international collaboration survey of a buried mountain range in East Antarctica (AGAP). (Any of these can be found via internet search.) It might be my imagination (or my season) but it appears that the kind of smaller projects in more technical terrain, the ones we mostly support, are on the wane.

I don’t know how long it’s been since someone stayed in this dept, Field Safety Training, as an instructor (not as supervisor) for 5 seasons as I have. I sure have a lot of Antarctic field experience, both deep and local and in a variety of Antarctic landscapes (it’s more varied than you’re thinking!).

There still seems to be plenty of field work for contract mountaineers, many of whom are former members of my department; it’s great having them around when they’re in town. They contract directly with an NSF science project and spend their whole time with that group. They don’t get to see as many places as we do, at least over the years one might spend in this dept. But if one gets on with a fun team in fabulous terrain (prob. a geology project), it would be well worth it. And it's a shorter season so allows for being home for part of the winter.

After all these years… I still haven’t had my fill of time outdoors.

I did get to respond to an actual SAR call-out last week for the first time, yea. It involved a snowmobile accident a half hour flight from town. Only 2 SAR members were sent out due to helicopter availability/capacity, but we were able to handle it easily enough with help from on-site folks. I was the incident but Matt has tons of USAP SAR experience and we worked well as a team. The weather involved high winds and blowing snow (of course), but the pilot was able to get in and out both times so it worked out fine.

Nice to finally be both in town and available for a call-out. All that training, especially here, but also over the years with outdoor education and guiding… a lot easier to take it seriously when one actually gets to use the skills occasionally (but not on someone in my group!). A good learning experience. The patient will fully recover from the injuries. The patient, incidentally, is also a friend of mine. It was really nice to be there to help him when he really needed it.

Larry was been out at AGAP on the E. Plateau since after I left for WAIS, but got back last night. Great to see him again.
Post-ice, he heads home for knee repair and I go climbing again in Arapiles. After a potential trip in search of hot lava on a certain island in the middle of the Pacific, I’ll head home for another season working in the mountains. I’m quite psyched about that. Larry will probably work science support in the Arctic this summer.

Ok, I’ve been blabbering quite enough. I’ll end this hear so you can go do something useful with your time!

Huge thanks to all who have not given up on me despite my inability to email you personally. Double gratitude to those who have included me on holiday updates and photos. It means more to me than this mass mailing can actually express.

Best of the new year, and the SNOW SNOW SNOW in the Rockies and Cascades. Send me powder shots! (ha ha) Make me drool more than I already am! Hey, we actually got a temperate-type snow storm the other day, six inches of a Sierra-cement snow! Snow to walk in and make snowpeople… novel! Snow falling from the sky (as opposed to being blasted horizontally by the wind) makes most people here happy, well, at least those who aren’t trying to go somewhere.

Stay in touch in whatever format works for you. I will be here (the big Here, not necessarily any particular geographic 'here').

Love and wild winds, Suz

Thin Sea Ice research, penguins, seals

Hello-hello,

I’m sitting here in the coffeehouse, my bike outside leaned up against the wall, and my double chocolate chip cookies by my side along with a mug of tea. This decadence has become my Sunday tradition. Among other things from the other world, I check the weather in the mountains at home… ever hoping for snow, the kind you step in, not on.

Tomorrow Larry gets back from almost 3 weeks putting in a major camp out on the West Antarctic Ice Sheet. I must say we’ve both been so busy and so tired that we’ve had little time to do much together before he left anyway; this isn’t the first time we’ve experienced this down here. I think it’s funny that we met down here, but back then the newness of it all helped overcome the tired factor and we were both a lot more social. I remember how much fun we have off-ice, the laughter and energy, and know that this flatness is simply situational. I suspect many couples have the same experience day after day, year after year, dealing with dual careers, kids, and taking care of a house, so I know not to feel sorry for myself!

I’ve been working a lot with a project studying how sea ice fractures. The work site is close to the ice edge on two feet of ice and we go out for 16+ hour days (I get to sleep in the next morning and go into work for the afternoon, but it throw’s me off to get to bed 4 hours before my normal wake-up time).

Using chainsaws, they isolate a 7m x 4m plate of ice and then use ice hooks from the 18th century to pull out the chunks of ice from along the sides so the plate is free floating with a strip of open water surrounding it. Then they install instruments, cut a slot in the side to put a special jack into. They pump nitrogen into the jack, basically a balloon, until the plate cracks. It takes most of the day to get to this stage and I must say the final effect was anti-climatic. I was hoping for a big CRACK and such, but sea ice, esp younger ice, doesn’t do that. It creaks and groans, making small popping noises as it slowly rips in half. But still pretty cool.

The resulting plates are just small enough to get rocking by stepping on and off of it till it’s going pretty well. It’s fun to stand with one foot on each of the post-fracture plates and step back and forth, getting the floes rocking hard, to actually feel the ice moving. In my experience down here, the aliveness of ice has been theoretical, so this is all rather exciting. Interesting, at least. As the ice warms and thins in the coming weeks, we’ll have to tune in to whether the ice is moving with the swells: a sign that we should probably leave soon esp if the day is warm and the winds from the south. So by standing on the bobbing floes I am training myself to feel the undulations… all important scientific research in the name of Field Safety.

Locating the site was a challenge. It took several helo flights to find ice thin enough for the researchers adjacent to ice thick enough for Science Support departments for a tent, snowmobiles, and helo landing. Then when we came out the 3rd time, a huge crack 40m across had opened up just a couple meters from the work site. That was an eye-opener. I’d like to say we chose that site sensing it would stay put, but the reality is even the researcher was surprised that our site happened to end up on the fast-ice side of the lead. The fracture didn’t follow any predictable path such as old fractures or plate margins. Hmmm. Was fun to write about this in the Sea Ice Report.

After much programmatic hand wringing we decided to stay with the site. Storms have since blown all the ice on the far side of that crack out, but recently a foot or so of new ice has formed. I’ve been watching that carefully out of curiosity as much as anything, measuring it further out each time I go out there, seeing how it’s forming up (.25m is as thin as I’ve been on). As warm as its getting these days, we’re not accumulating much more ice thickness on the existing ice anymore so this will likely stay soft and spooky.

Funny that I am the Sea Ice point of contact, when last year I spent a whopping 2 days on the sea ice. There is so much variety in this job that 5 years into it, I am still new to numerous components. I like that in a job. This is the first time I’ve seen thin ice or been at the ice edge. That was that one day when there was actual water next to the site. I kept an eye out and saw a penguin porpoising through the water. When he saw us, he turned and launched, landing on his belly and rapidly gliding, nonchalant, toward the powercord to the generator. After checking out our scene thoroughly, he laid down for a nap, bill in the snow.

What a treat to see a penguin swimming. Our standard sighting is them either vertical walking or tobogganing on their belly, kicking along with their feet. They are so graceful in the water; delightful.

Sea ice forms quite differently than freshwater ice, and now I’ve been able to actually see some of the differences. Quite interesting. I’ve been learning a lot, figuring things out, combining theory with reality. We hear that the marine USAP station, Palmer, allows foot travel on a foot of sea ice, but we’re not sure what ice temperatures that includes. Here we normally have a 2-5m of ice, so thin ice is something new to me. We still have lots and lots of thick ice and travel is closed long before it gets thin. The hazard is that it gets warm (while thick) and then falls apart and blows out, not that it would get thin enough that you’d fall through like on freshwater ice. The whole thing is interesting and I’m grateful to get to know this complex and dynamic medium a bit more.

Also seeing penguins and seals regularly. As always, the penguins usually visit us to make sure we’re doing things right. They are as charming as ever, and the two different species as different in movement, in effect, as I described my first season. I remind myself that these are the real things, wild creatures, free as can be, doing their own thing. When else in my life will I get to watch real penguins in their world, going about their business, which is frequently investigating us?

For that matter, when else will I commute by helicopter? How fun is that? I quite like working around them and feel pretty comfortable with it, dealing with the protocols, radio comms, all things that I’ve learned down here. Enjoy working with the pilots, all seasoned local veterans. They know this place and their job here really well. And they seem less crusty than when I met them 4 years ago as a helo-passenger novice. (I hope that doesn’t suggest I’m getting crusty).

The seals are done pupping and are training their little ones to swim now (so I hear from the researchers). Near our work site I saw a distant skua (big brown gull) feeding. There isn’t much to feed on, so I investigated, predicting what I’d find: dead pup. The skuas peck out the eyes but, like ravens, cannot open a carcass. Ravens wait for coyotes (et al) to open the bonanza, but here with no terrestrial animals, carcasses just freeze into the ice, basically mummifying until the ice goes out and they feed marine scavengers. Some of the multi-year ice includes carcasses years old, mummified with the fur worn off by winter snow-blasting.

The part of the dead pup that wasn’t drifted in was soft pliable, probably due to the sun’s heat. I didn’t realize their hind flippers are really like hands: five furry fingers, each with a claw, separated by skin like a duck’s foot but with fur. The outer fingers are biggest by far, followed by the middle finger. The coat was super thick (same number of hairs as adult, so ultra dense), but not as soft as one might expect given that baby seals were killed for their fur no so long ago (or at least not in the papers anymore). They have beautiful little faces, not unlike a Labrador but rounder.

The other day we heard a seal breathing nearby, and found the hole. Every ten or so minutes the seal returned, taking big bold breaths before going down for another fishing dive.

I know I have made a new record this year for poor personal correspondence, as exemplified by the scarcity of these updates. Despite that, know that I really appreciate hearing from you, from those in my other life, knowing what’s going on back there, how you are. It’s a treat to get photos too: you, your family, adventures, house, kids, pets, and especially landscapes with plants and animals… the Land of the Living.

This place is amazing no doubt. I am still enchanted with this powerful landscape; there is much to it. I suspect that for the rest of my life when I’m done coming down here, I’ll cry every time I hear the voice of a penguin, among other reminders. My comments above simply reflect the fact that I remain quite attached to other kinds of landscapes as well, and playing within them.

I hope you enjoyed Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday: family, friends, food, but without the hype and commercialization of Christmas (that’s one thing I really don’t miss). I hope you were able to get out and walk that day too, soak in the cooling temperatures (or so I hope they are), the dead leaves, the longer nights.

Nights! Yeah, that’s something else miss under the ever-present sun. This is such an intense place, a lot different than the feel here in August and September when there were a third as many people here and dark nights.

Larry is back and today we biked out to the informal skating rink, yea. Quite a lot of fun, and something different. I’ll send some photos from that as well as seal snout shots and maybe some penguinos.

Love and wild winds, Susan

A different season on 'the ice'

Hi all,
I hope you have been enjoying the changing seasons. Crunch through some leaves, drink in the scent of the early morning air, and admire the aspens turning gold.

I arrived here on August 20… full-on summer at home. I only worked for a couple days and wasn’t exactly ready to leave when the time came. I had been curious about the Antarctic 6-week pre-season, hoping to see the aurora australis, nacreous clouds, darkness (southern stars!) and to feel the cold here in McM. I knew I wouldn’t do it again because I too much miss late summer in the mountains, and personal trips after the work season. But to be here once for this time was worth it despite having missed the infrequent aurora displays that occurred during the few clear nights. Local knowledge has it that this is the most unstable weather of the year. Only one nacreous cloud has been sighted and I missed it.

Yet the lighting has been lovely because of the sun being at such a low angle. Brilliant and long-lasting sunsets, brightly illuminated clouds, even the steam from building vents glows pink in the light. The velvety colors and long shadows on the Royal Society Range (13,000’) across McMurdo sound continually draw admiration. The enormous full moon, looming large just above them, provided photographers grand material and the rest of us a great distraction.

When I arrived, it was only light for a few hours midday. Darkness was a real novelty and I enjoyed the restfulness of it. The always glaring sun or at least light of summer is exhausting. Walking to and from work at night was quite a bit different and after a few days I even looked forward to being able to see into the distance as the sun eased just above the horizon, remaining hidden due to the hills on 3 side of town. With the snow and town lights, it wasn’t really that dark in town. The light changes fast this time of year, each day about 20 more minutes of light. Two weeks ago sunglasses came out midday.

There are only about 350 people on station, less than a third of the summer population and only 3 science groups (one measuring ozone, which starts to break down this time of year as the sun comes up).

Everyone loves how quiet it is, except the remaining winter-overs who think it’s busy and crazy. It’s easy to get on a cardio machine at the gerbil gym, find a seat in the coffee house, and linger at a relaxed dinner. All that is about to change, but on the other hand, it will be fun to see a lot of old friends returning. Unfortunately, like anywhere one stays for some time, fewer and fewer of my longer-time friends still return which is a drag even though cool new people enter the scene each year. On the other hand are the people who have been coming here for decades and will forever.

Even with only 350 people here during this pre-season which is called “winfly” for “winter fly-in”, there’s enough talent for a number of bands. Recently the Recreation dept put together “Winstock”, a party during which band after band played for a few hours. It was fun to be out and dance, something I very rarely do during the summer season.

I’ve been Acting Supervisor for these 6 weeks. A few days into it, one of our dept’s new guys arrived so I began training him in addition to being interim SAR Leader and Sea Ice Point of Contact. The latter is a role that I’ll have through the sea ice season, and means that I take the lead on gathering data (how thick is the ice, how big are the cracks) and write the biweekly report.

So far I’ve been pretty consumed with supervisory responsibilities and haven’t been able to get out on the sea ice as much as I expect to next month. I am super glad I didn’t apply for the dept Supervisor position when it came open 2 seasons ago. It has been fun to interact with and get to know a new set of people and I’ve enjoyed having the wider view of what’s happening in the program. I also don’t mind developing my limited computer skills. However, it isn’t worth the time spent in a chair, all the admin stuff, and especially dealing with politics and the bureaucracy. This time of year there’s no one to handle course sign-ups, so I had to get people signed up (a couple hundred people) for their Refresher and other classes. I couldn’t believe how much time and emailing this took. It did, however, make the actual teaching all the more fun.

I’ve already ran a few GPS courses. Given that I didn’t know the first thing about them when I started here and now use one a lot, esp on the sea ice making or following routes and marking crack crossings, it’s been fun to figure out how to effectively share this skill with others. As useful as this tool is here, I don’t see any real use for it in normal backcountry use, esp with 7.5 minute maps. I am really glad I grew up pre-GPS, in the map and compass era and culture.

The politics have been a bit of an education. I learned about how important it is to know the personalities of the people above you on the food chain. We had a vehicle incident in which someone in a high position on station sent around an inaccurate and accusatory message regarding my involvement (fried transmission). Not realizing this guy is known for shooting and asking questions later, I took it pretty seriously and spent a lot of time explaining to everyone what actually happened. It was a bit of a mess for a couple days, but I did find out how much respect and support I have in this community. Eventually a formal investigation was launched, much to my relief, so that key questions were asked, ones I could not ask because I am so close to the situation. It’ll all resolve fine, but good grief, what a dumb way to spend time! Esp when there is so much real work to be done.

I also learned that no matter how much I appreciate and respect a casual friend with a good reputation, to document via email, all work related conversations, even those that happen at dinner. People don’t always say what they really mean and sometimes tell you what you want to hear even when it isn’t true, esp if their supervisor isn’t in on the discussions, it can lead to a mess. That too resolved fine, but I sure didn’t appreciate having to deal with it.

That was a challenging week but things have mellowed since and I can get back to actually being productive. I am quite sure that most of you are amused that only now am I learning such Office Basics, and that these little messes are nothing compared to some of the drama you’ve been dragged into and had to spend a ridiculous amount of time dealing with.

Training Galen has been fun. Enjoying figuring out how to pace and prioritize the tremendous amount of information required simply within our job, as well program-wide. Fun to figure out how to make his learning curve smoother and better supported than mine was in ‘03. He’s been doing well. I however chronically have mixed feelings about assigning him all the logistical tasks and much of the teaching that I would normally do and esp. sending him out in the field without me because I have to sit in front of the computer instead.

I look forward to Cece returning with the gang and me getting to be just a Field Instructor again. I have a suspicion, however, that she’s going to take advantage of the admin and supervisory skills I’ve gained esp because our dept of 6 will be half new this year. And, for the first time, 50% women which is esp cool given that when I arrived, people couldn’t remember exactly when a woman had last been in the dept.

Fortunately I’ll be busy getting out on the sea ice to gather data (and then entering it into the spreadsheet and writing the reports… butt time but I’ll learn to be FAST about it), which also means I’ll have a lot more opportunities this year to see penguins and seals (have already seen seals!). Last year I spent a lot of time in the deep field, mostly on the plateau, and missed a lot of the animal action, which is all coastal. Always a balance: this year I won’t camp as much, but I’ll see more wildlife and I’ll get to try out the speed-skate blades I bought that fit onto my skate ski boots. Last year Larry had a day of skating near penguins so this year I might get a chance.

Enjoying having my bike down here even though I just putz around town. Somehow it gives me a feeling of freedom of movement, esp. comparison to walking and in light of being very used to biking around town at home.

The sea ice will likely be interesting again this year. It is still recovering from the mega-berg years, when that giant iceberg (as big as small NE state originally, now gone) grounded locally blocking currents and causing a tremendous build-up of sea ice, some of which remains (4+ meters thick). Last year a lot of the ice “went out” so with the icebreaker ship channel, we had some open water in front of the station. The breaker channel was only about 10 miles long, not 80 as it was just a few years ago. We have more new ice locally than I’ve seen (1.5m or more) and maybe it’ll “all” go out this year so conditions will return to the pre-mega-berg days and have full-on open water right here in front of town.

One our big jobs during the pre-season is assessing the ice north of town where the scientists work and flagging a route so that Fleet Ops can groom it and drag out the little huts for the research camps. That took five different trips, the first two of which aborted due to vehicle problems with the cold. The only one I could go on was one of these first two, unfortunately. This job takes a lot of people, so we take volunteers from the community. They love it and its fun to offer these “work trips” to the many people who don’t get out much.

Then there’s the depts. who prepare the sea ice runway (70” ice minimum) just outside of town for the C-17s to land upon almost until Christmas. We landed on the ice shelf, floating glacial ice on an airstrip that remains landable most of the time with minimal management because it’s wind scoured hard ice. This runway is a long way from town, so it’s worth it for them to build and maintain the sea ice runway right outside of town until the ice weakens and they switch to the other runway.

Our dept has nothing to do with the runway work. Their surveyor keeps track of that ice and reports it’s temperature to us, which I’ll include in the sea ice report.

Enjoying living with Larry again. We have our little scene pretty figured out and leave a lot of stuff here over the southern-winter so don’t have to fly with so much stuff. He has a soymilk maker and it’s a treat to have fresh soymilk. Also this year have realized I can fill out of form from the galley to get ingredients to make my fabulous double chocolate chip cookies! I avoid most of the chocolate desserts here due to hydrogenated oils, so being able to bake my own in our nice breakroom kitchen has improved life. Sometimes after lunch, Larry and I fill out the hour with popcorn in our breakroom, another treat.

Well that's about it for now.
Thanks for the updates and photos... I greatly appreciate it.
Love and light, Susan