Hi all,
I am at the South Pole Station, waiting another day to get a flight out to the next AGO site I’ll be working. These are the Automated Geophysical Observatories (space weather, basically), that get serviced annually by engineers who are not necessarily deep field savvy. For the last three years 3 of the 6 original AGO sites have been maintained, having been switched over to wind power. This year they’re adding one that hasn’t been maintained in 5 years. My job is to dig out the survival cache, fuel caches, and other caches and inventory stuff, flag and GPS everything, and manage camp. Glamorous!
I was originally assigned to go to one for a week in place of one of our new guys who has an injury that prevents shoveling. (He is now working on a much more interesting project that I was originally assigned). The snow out there can be rather firm, such that one can place a steel shovel blade in a bit and then step onto the shovel with both feet and then jump on the shovel to get it to penetrate. Then if a block didn’t release, you have to wrestle the shovel back out and try again from a different angle. In climbing we love this kind of snow and call it “bulletproof”. I won’t say what we call it here. Not all the snow is like this, but a lot is and it requires good technique (as above rather than trying to ram in the blade with arms) as well as pacing oneself to be able to dig out caches. Yoga or at least simple stretching, is key.
I have assigned myself the task of writing an SOP (Standard Operating Procedures) for these sites to help the newer people know what to do so we can make it easy for everyone… starting next year. If the caches are moved to the new surface each year, they don’t require psycho digging. However, we are behind in this currently as past people looked at caches and noted that they wouldn’t be buried by the next year. A cache doesn’t have to be fully submerged to be hell to dig out.
One of the engineers made the unsolicited comment last week that I’m the hardest working person he’s seen from my dept in his 3 seasons; he started right after I had been to all sites my first season. (But I made up for that during our flight delay days by lying around reading). Given the state of the last site and the lack of inventory (of survival gear, food, etc), I am not surprised.
I don’t blame the recent others for preferring to help the engineers with the wind turbines and all! In any case, I hope we can make this job much easier for everyone in the future. Last year one of our guys got a back injury and had to be switched out (with the woman who is now our supervisor).
That week stretched into 10 days with technical and then flight delays. Our dept in crunched back in McMurdo, our usual state of affairs (we have desperately been trying to get an additional person for since I’ve been working here) and I’ve been asked to go to the next site as well, the one that hasn’t been maintained in at least four years (no one seems to know how long probably because of high turnover these last 2 seasons). I’m ok with it except for the fact that now it’s pretty clear that I’m going to miss our second two-day weekend. We get three a year: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years, so this is a big bummer, especially because I have someone I really like to spend time with back in McMurdo. At least I enjoy the 3 guys I’m working with, so it’s not like being in the field with them is a drag or anything. And I did ski twice at the last site… rough skiing for sure, but fun nonetheless.
As you can tell from emails this year it hasn’t been all that lively of a season for me down here. (Whether the sea ice will go out remains to be seen, and it isn’t acting as weird/dramatic as it did last year). I’ve yet to see a penguin or even a seal, have not been to the Dry Valleys, or on a helo once. I have no delusions of getting back to Mt Erebus this year, but it isn’t sending out bombs NEARLY as much this year anyway: I am happy to accept that that truly was a once in a lifetime experience, and to savor the memory.
I have not visited dynamic places yet this year because I’ve been in the deep field a lot, unlike last year when I didn’t go at all. This past October, I did get two weeks in the field with Larry (and many others in small spaces and with a lot of work to do), which was an appreciated first. And I’ve had more fun skiing and this year biking with him than in seasons past, and that counts for a lot.
Hopefully these things simply cycle. I do enjoy being in the deep field, but it certainly isn’t the only thing I enjoy down here. The deep field is often short for the Great White Expanse… not exactly a vibrant place. It dominates the continent, but definitely not the Antarctic Program involvement with the continent. It is still a wonderful and worthwhile experience being down here, don’t get me wrong. As normal as everything gets, I remind myself that I won’t be doing this job forever, so I want to keep savoring the wide variety of experiences I have here, and to keep taking pictures, not taking anything for granted.
Love and light, Susan
December 06, 2006
November 13, 2006
Skua attack, pooping planes, and DEEP cold
Hi all,
Yesterday at lunch I got "skua'ed! I was carrying a sandwich away from the galley when I was struck on the back of the head by a wing and had the wrapped sandwich knocked out of my hand. Those birds are bigger than they look and with my hood up, I didn't hear him coming. Although I was able to rescue the sandwich before the bird got back to it, the impact made enough of an impression on me that now I automatically go on high alert now when I go out that door, with our without food. They are stealthy and notorious. Don’t believe their innocent expressions in the photos at pbase.com/antarctic_suze.
I'm back from two weeks at Taylor Dome, just above Taylor Valley (Dry Valleys) on the East Antarctic Plateau.
We were scheduled to fly back on a Herc (LC-130), the big plane flown by the NY Air Nat'l Guard, but that morning were switched to a Twin Otter, a much smaller plane flown by a contractor out of Calgary. Flying with Canadian bush pilots is quite a bit more fun than flying with the US government. With the Canadians, it's a rather casual affair, starting with them buzzing camp "to let you know we're here". The Hercs are strangled with endless structure, rules, regulations, and formality, so getting switched to a Twin Otter was a treat... that plus lots of windows.
The first few days of getting the camp together had it's challenges with weather and it's results, such as propane hoses snapping in the cold and the fact that heaters (propane or diesel) don't work well (nor do generators) below minus forty degrees C/F (minus forty is the same on both scales). Poorly running heaters and stoves lead to nasty fumes... not exactly what our bloodstreams need in the cold at almost 8000', which physiologically is higher at polar latitudes.
Digging out the giant tractors took some time, followed by much engine warming with the gas-powered heaters we brought, but eventually they ran again and the operators could get the runway groomed enough for the Hercs. The Twin Otters can land just about anywhere and take off in what appears to be 100', but the Hercs have to have all the right runway markers, etc on their two mile regulation runway.
The Hercs dropped off a lot of cargo over numerous flights and will do so for the next few weeks as the scientists get out there and get ready for the Traverse (see last message). With the air as cold as it was, exhaust creates an ice fog that surrounds the plane. Obviously this doesn't help much for finding the runway, so they do a hot offload. What happens is the plane taxis along with the tail ramp down, then you'll hear the engines rev up and it'll pick up speed while the cargo pallets are released down the ramp in the swirling ice fog. The effect is very much that the plane is pooping: a big gray bird pooping squares on the snow. For some reason I find this quite amusing.
It's truly amazing how we adapt. Believe it or not, -30 actually seems warm, esp without wind, when you've been dealing with temps below minus forty. The coldest we measured was about Fahrenheit minus 55...
brrr! At that temp, ziploc bags become crinkly and stiff like cellophane, those yellow foam earplugs snap in half, and we didn't go out with a square centimeter of skin exposed. The wind really zaps warmth, so when it isn't windy, it seems radically warmer.
We slept in little heated (more or less) buildings on skis that will be hauled along the traverse, so it isn't like we were living in tents in these conditions. Nonetheless I had my hands full making sure people didn't get frostbit and putting into place the basics of a safe camp. But it was fun... part of the reason to come to Antarctica is to occasionally get a good pounding.
The other day we had a Search and Rescue call-out, a missed Twin Otter check-in, that got as far as us starting to pull gear from the SAR locker before they radio'd in. It was the pilots I'd flown with 3 times recently and I had seen them and their two passengers leaving that morning. The thing about SARs here is that there is a high probability of knowing the people involved (not to mention that we rarely have real incidents so we don't exactly have much opportunity to get calloused about it (does anyone ever really?). It was sobering thinking about what we might encounter as we pulled gear. Fortunately almost always the party calls in before we get very far.
Since getting back I've started riding my bike around town. Larry and I bought used rentals back home and had them sent down as entertainment as much as transportation (town is compact). It'll provide more flexiblity not needing to wait for the airfield shuttle to get out to skate ski on the road to the runway, but it's already been fun just being able to move at a less of an Antarctic pace. And then there's the challenge of finding the right balance between real ice and too-loose snow which definitely helped me wake up this morning. But the roads are drying out (sublimating, that is) so the riding will just get easier as I figure out the best biking routes around town. I'm finding the seat is quite hard, but am hoping it'll soften up as the temps warm.
So, not too much exciting going on. Tomorrow Larry gets back from Taylor Dome now that they're done swapping out the skis on the giant sleds, but I'll be out at Happy Camper school overnight.
Be well, and enjoy the crunchy leaves out there for me. And the smells of fall...
Love to all, Susan
Yesterday at lunch I got "skua'ed! I was carrying a sandwich away from the galley when I was struck on the back of the head by a wing and had the wrapped sandwich knocked out of my hand. Those birds are bigger than they look and with my hood up, I didn't hear him coming. Although I was able to rescue the sandwich before the bird got back to it, the impact made enough of an impression on me that now I automatically go on high alert now when I go out that door, with our without food. They are stealthy and notorious. Don’t believe their innocent expressions in the photos at pbase.com/antarctic_suze.
I'm back from two weeks at Taylor Dome, just above Taylor Valley (Dry Valleys) on the East Antarctic Plateau.
We were scheduled to fly back on a Herc (LC-130), the big plane flown by the NY Air Nat'l Guard, but that morning were switched to a Twin Otter, a much smaller plane flown by a contractor out of Calgary. Flying with Canadian bush pilots is quite a bit more fun than flying with the US government. With the Canadians, it's a rather casual affair, starting with them buzzing camp "to let you know we're here". The Hercs are strangled with endless structure, rules, regulations, and formality, so getting switched to a Twin Otter was a treat... that plus lots of windows.
The first few days of getting the camp together had it's challenges with weather and it's results, such as propane hoses snapping in the cold and the fact that heaters (propane or diesel) don't work well (nor do generators) below minus forty degrees C/F (minus forty is the same on both scales). Poorly running heaters and stoves lead to nasty fumes... not exactly what our bloodstreams need in the cold at almost 8000', which physiologically is higher at polar latitudes.
Digging out the giant tractors took some time, followed by much engine warming with the gas-powered heaters we brought, but eventually they ran again and the operators could get the runway groomed enough for the Hercs. The Twin Otters can land just about anywhere and take off in what appears to be 100', but the Hercs have to have all the right runway markers, etc on their two mile regulation runway.
The Hercs dropped off a lot of cargo over numerous flights and will do so for the next few weeks as the scientists get out there and get ready for the Traverse (see last message). With the air as cold as it was, exhaust creates an ice fog that surrounds the plane. Obviously this doesn't help much for finding the runway, so they do a hot offload. What happens is the plane taxis along with the tail ramp down, then you'll hear the engines rev up and it'll pick up speed while the cargo pallets are released down the ramp in the swirling ice fog. The effect is very much that the plane is pooping: a big gray bird pooping squares on the snow. For some reason I find this quite amusing.
It's truly amazing how we adapt. Believe it or not, -30 actually seems warm, esp without wind, when you've been dealing with temps below minus forty. The coldest we measured was about Fahrenheit minus 55...
brrr! At that temp, ziploc bags become crinkly and stiff like cellophane, those yellow foam earplugs snap in half, and we didn't go out with a square centimeter of skin exposed. The wind really zaps warmth, so when it isn't windy, it seems radically warmer.
We slept in little heated (more or less) buildings on skis that will be hauled along the traverse, so it isn't like we were living in tents in these conditions. Nonetheless I had my hands full making sure people didn't get frostbit and putting into place the basics of a safe camp. But it was fun... part of the reason to come to Antarctica is to occasionally get a good pounding.
The other day we had a Search and Rescue call-out, a missed Twin Otter check-in, that got as far as us starting to pull gear from the SAR locker before they radio'd in. It was the pilots I'd flown with 3 times recently and I had seen them and their two passengers leaving that morning. The thing about SARs here is that there is a high probability of knowing the people involved (not to mention that we rarely have real incidents so we don't exactly have much opportunity to get calloused about it (does anyone ever really?). It was sobering thinking about what we might encounter as we pulled gear. Fortunately almost always the party calls in before we get very far.
Since getting back I've started riding my bike around town. Larry and I bought used rentals back home and had them sent down as entertainment as much as transportation (town is compact). It'll provide more flexiblity not needing to wait for the airfield shuttle to get out to skate ski on the road to the runway, but it's already been fun just being able to move at a less of an Antarctic pace. And then there's the challenge of finding the right balance between real ice and too-loose snow which definitely helped me wake up this morning. But the roads are drying out (sublimating, that is) so the riding will just get easier as I figure out the best biking routes around town. I'm finding the seat is quite hard, but am hoping it'll soften up as the temps warm.
So, not too much exciting going on. Tomorrow Larry gets back from Taylor Dome now that they're done swapping out the skis on the giant sleds, but I'll be out at Happy Camper school overnight.
Be well, and enjoy the crunchy leaves out there for me. And the smells of fall...
Love to all, Susan
February 11, 2006
Skua incident, Return of the Nodwell; season end
Hi all,
I fly north on your-Thursday, so this is my last ice message of the season; just a couple notes.
You might recall early season I mentioned our dept vehicle woes, which deteriorated throughout the season leaving us facing a crisis next year (having to run half size Happy Campers, which would greatly slow down the research teams from getting into the field, which would get NSF’s attention). In the middle of last season our tracked behemoth (vintage 1976, Navy), the Nodwell (see Oct or Nov ’03 on blog) died and we were told it couldn’t be repaired. Well yesterday I got a phone call to come pick it up. Our boss’s boss had pushed to get it resurrected but didn’t want to get our hopes up so withheld this information.
What a thrill to drive the Plodwell again, the one with two levers sticking up off the floor: you pull either one to steer. It doesn’t track straight so you leave drunken tracks across the snow, has a turning radius that one must be cognizant of (plus you have to be careful not to throw a track), and is so loud everyone wears ear protection. It leaks oil so we are outfitted with containment and spill kit supplies to deal with that (my favorite part of the job). But it works, starts in the cold, and will haul 20 people and gear without getting stuck. We had a challenging year with vehicles so this is a big deal, our preferred solution. It’s funny, a huge piece of shit that those of us who were here in previous years have come to greatly appreciate.
All the ship drama with the icebreaker channel? It all worked out.
It appears that the sea ice won’t go out much this year despite all the early season excitement because the mega berg B-15 finally left. Now, there’s a small berg, maybe only as big as Rhode Island or so, poised at the mouth of McMurdo Sound, causing a few ripples of anxiety among those who pay for the ships. That story, if it becomes one, will have to wait till October.
Remember that large scavenger brown gull the skua? After hearing stories for 3 seasons, I finally had my first incident. I was carrying a wrapped sandwich away from the galley when one swooped close over my shoulder and grabbed the sandwich right out of my hand. I couldn’t believe it, but my hands were indeed empty. The bird avoided brushing me with wingtips or feet, which I thought was a pretty coordinated bit of flying. Rumor has it that this is a well practiced skua skill. They don’t always avoid contact, however, and traumatize people regularly. Sometimes you see abandoned plates sitting there on the ground, plastic wrap fluttering.
The sandwich was heavy so the skua had difficulty gaining altitude. I saw my opportunity. Disturbing wildlife is most distinctly against the Antarctic Treaty, but I chose to re-interpret the law more toward its intention: protecting wildlife from human harm. Clearly eating human food is unhealthy for the bird on more than one level, so retrieving the sandwich would ultimately protect this sneaky skua more than letting him get away with it.
It was a fairly long chase around the “quad” type area between the galley and dorms, and a well matched race it was as I was right behind him the whole time. Then he made the miscalculation of heading toward an inside corner in the galley building. I realized this before he did (I guess that means I’m slightly smarter than a bird-brain) and herded him a bit more into the corner, knowing he wouldn’t be able to clear the building with the booty. It didn’t matter that the sandwich was full of skua-foot nastiness, because the skua didn’t get to eat it either. Ha.
And there weren’t any higher-ups around to bust me for treaty violation.
When I get home I’ll start developing the photo-display website my friend Rob set up for me, so then you can click through more photos more conveniently.
So, thanks for tuning in, and much more so for writing back to me despite my impersonal mailings. I much enjoy hearing from you, and about your life back ‘in the world’, particularly when I am down here in the land of ice and wind, stunning but stark.
Yes, I plan to return. I am not yet done with Antarctica, or should I say the Antarctic is not yet done with me.
The photos are from the SAR multi-day exercise in the Asgard Range and Wright Valley in the Dry Valleys. We are on the summit of Mt. Electra, Kiwi Paula and I.
Love, light, and the smell of spring in the winds, Susan
I fly north on your-Thursday, so this is my last ice message of the season; just a couple notes.
You might recall early season I mentioned our dept vehicle woes, which deteriorated throughout the season leaving us facing a crisis next year (having to run half size Happy Campers, which would greatly slow down the research teams from getting into the field, which would get NSF’s attention). In the middle of last season our tracked behemoth (vintage 1976, Navy), the Nodwell (see Oct or Nov ’03 on blog) died and we were told it couldn’t be repaired. Well yesterday I got a phone call to come pick it up. Our boss’s boss had pushed to get it resurrected but didn’t want to get our hopes up so withheld this information.
What a thrill to drive the Plodwell again, the one with two levers sticking up off the floor: you pull either one to steer. It doesn’t track straight so you leave drunken tracks across the snow, has a turning radius that one must be cognizant of (plus you have to be careful not to throw a track), and is so loud everyone wears ear protection. It leaks oil so we are outfitted with containment and spill kit supplies to deal with that (my favorite part of the job). But it works, starts in the cold, and will haul 20 people and gear without getting stuck. We had a challenging year with vehicles so this is a big deal, our preferred solution. It’s funny, a huge piece of shit that those of us who were here in previous years have come to greatly appreciate.
All the ship drama with the icebreaker channel? It all worked out.
It appears that the sea ice won’t go out much this year despite all the early season excitement because the mega berg B-15 finally left. Now, there’s a small berg, maybe only as big as Rhode Island or so, poised at the mouth of McMurdo Sound, causing a few ripples of anxiety among those who pay for the ships. That story, if it becomes one, will have to wait till October.
Remember that large scavenger brown gull the skua? After hearing stories for 3 seasons, I finally had my first incident. I was carrying a wrapped sandwich away from the galley when one swooped close over my shoulder and grabbed the sandwich right out of my hand. I couldn’t believe it, but my hands were indeed empty. The bird avoided brushing me with wingtips or feet, which I thought was a pretty coordinated bit of flying. Rumor has it that this is a well practiced skua skill. They don’t always avoid contact, however, and traumatize people regularly. Sometimes you see abandoned plates sitting there on the ground, plastic wrap fluttering.
The sandwich was heavy so the skua had difficulty gaining altitude. I saw my opportunity. Disturbing wildlife is most distinctly against the Antarctic Treaty, but I chose to re-interpret the law more toward its intention: protecting wildlife from human harm. Clearly eating human food is unhealthy for the bird on more than one level, so retrieving the sandwich would ultimately protect this sneaky skua more than letting him get away with it.
It was a fairly long chase around the “quad” type area between the galley and dorms, and a well matched race it was as I was right behind him the whole time. Then he made the miscalculation of heading toward an inside corner in the galley building. I realized this before he did (I guess that means I’m slightly smarter than a bird-brain) and herded him a bit more into the corner, knowing he wouldn’t be able to clear the building with the booty. It didn’t matter that the sandwich was full of skua-foot nastiness, because the skua didn’t get to eat it either. Ha.
And there weren’t any higher-ups around to bust me for treaty violation.
When I get home I’ll start developing the photo-display website my friend Rob set up for me, so then you can click through more photos more conveniently.
So, thanks for tuning in, and much more so for writing back to me despite my impersonal mailings. I much enjoy hearing from you, and about your life back ‘in the world’, particularly when I am down here in the land of ice and wind, stunning but stark.
Yes, I plan to return. I am not yet done with Antarctica, or should I say the Antarctic is not yet done with me.
The photos are from the SAR multi-day exercise in the Asgard Range and Wright Valley in the Dry Valleys. We are on the summit of Mt. Electra, Kiwi Paula and I.
Love, light, and the smell of spring in the winds, Susan
January 31, 2006
Mt EREBUS: lava bombs, crystals, caves! Finally!
Hi all,
I finally made it up to Mt. Erebus, the 12,800' active volcano that explains the existence of Ross Island. I went up for area familiarization for Search and Rescue, and to help them with camp close-out. After acclimatizing for a day at a lower camp, we were flown to the hut on the caldera, which is the lower angle break in the mountain's profile.
My time up there constituted some of the most amazing experiences I've had. The lava lake, only 42m across but 1000' down in the 1000' diameter crater, is spewing lava bombs for the first time since I graduated from high school. I learned the protocols for what to do when there's an eruption: drop your pack if it's heavy, face uphill, and look up in the air for bombs falling toward you. The ones that barely make it out of the crater could come at you horizontally, so you have to watch out for those too.
But realistically, one's chances of getting hit are quite slim and approaching zero along certain parts of the rim. Only a VERY small percentage of terrain is hit in any one eruption, even if you include the bouncing and skidding of bombs along the surface (which, by the way, is largely composed of 1984 and much older bombs that have disintegrated in the acidic steam, leaving the Erebus crystals covering the ground in between the bombs).
The volcanologists up there have seismometers all over the mountain, as well as cameras on the rim watching the action and showing it in the hut and in the lab in McMurdo. They had a pretty good idea of how many hours between eruptions (one or more per day) and how big was big, so we could time our rim visits to minimize the chance of being there during a big eruption. Sometimes the active steam vent erupts, emitting a lot of steam, but no bombs. Normal eruptions sound much like avalanche bombing... a large deep reverberating BOOM!
At times we were on the sides of the mtn and upon returning to the hut we discovered via the seismometers that we'd missed an eruption so we'd replay the video and see how big it was. One time you could see lava flying toward the camera: a blob getting bigger fast, then dropping out of sight right in front of the camera. Then you could see steam rising from the bomb in the snow below the camera. Later I checked it out and the bomb, about the size of a cat, had hit the vertical snow of the rim just below the camera, slid down a meter, and was still there stuck in the vertical snow. Crazy.
On the video in the hut you can sometimes see shock waves from the boom, and Nelia and Bill report that the force of a big eruption can knock you down if you're on the rim.
They grantees were, among many things, collecting smaller bombs to later examine their chemical composition and to determine the extent of this year's bomb throwing (ie how big is "bomb alley"). Fresh bombs are covered with a tannish gold fine hairiness of volcanic glass. Sharp. Some of these fibers fly out of the crater alone and land on the snow as "Pele's hair" (volcano goddess). Smaller bombs are irregular in shape, but the bigger ones, like from 1984, are bulbous. The larger of those have collapsed, leaving a shape much like a red blood cell. The biggest '84 bomb they know of is 11m across, and the biggest this year 3m long. Wouldn't want to find myself calculating the trajectory of something that big. And hot.
Then there are Erebus crystals. They are wonderful for their shape, not for being translucent or dramatically colored. I'll send photos soon. The crystals are a type of feldspar (but different shaped) are thought to slowly form within the convective currents deep within the lava lake.
The first day I went to the rim I found myself rather quiet, trying to absorb everything. There was so much to wrap my brain around. That day the view of the lava was largely obscured by steam, but I sat and stared, and did get good glimpses occasionally. I even saw some orange bubbles rise up like burps out of the highly viscous molten earth. To see pre-rock, full-on live lava gurgling in slow motion, steaming, hissing, and building up pressure, blew my mind. We were on a safe part of the rim, so of course I wanted to see an eruption, but just being there was spellbinding.
Pulling with my ice axe, I later opened up an '84 bomb, now cracked on the outside and hollow from the gases, expanding due to pressure release, having escaped the lava but to the inside because the outside was cooling. The rock on the inside was shiny black, absolutely smooth, much like black shiny taffy where it had been stretched into long fibers. Where it hadn't, it was pocked with large holes where the gases had accumulated.
The outside of the bomb was quite different having been much eroded by the acidic plume. No longer was the bomb irregular, but rounded and all the Erebus crystals were light colored, standing out on the slightly darker surface except where they were obscured by green/yellow sulfur deposits.
I have to admit I have learned to love the smell of sulfur. Between Mt. Baker, Yellowstone, and now Erebus, how could I not? It means I'm in a deeply dynamic place, the smell of live hot earth...
I spent New Year's up there. Five minutes before 2006 we were in the hut playing a game and as always keeping an eye on the monitor showing the crater. BOOM, a big one went off so we hustled to the window to see the action. In two places the snow was steaming... but Bill suggested we finish the game. Afterward, we all jumped on snowmachines, and zipped on up there like little kids giddy with anticipation (some more than others).
I pulled hot lava, like very stiff taffy, out of a fresh hot bomb. This was something I'd heard about and greatly hoped to do, but certainly had no expectation. Bill waited 22 years for this experience. The bomb was about 1.5m x .75m, and still too hot to touch, or so we assumed (too sharp anyway). It had left a 5' round crater in the snow, then bounced out and had slid to it's final location, melting snow along the way.
Bill let me hack into it first, and yes, it was glowing orange inside. I was surprised how stiff it was, one had to lean on the ice axe to pull taffy, which cooled as it was exposed to the cooler air. You could see red-hot Erebus crystals suspended in the lava, re-orienting as pulling taffy brought them into the light of summer. One had to be careful while pulling so hard: good footing in the snow standing over the bomb was important. Bill said the lava was probably about 800+degrees Celcius (8x boiling). You wouldn't try to touch the outside anyway because the fibers are so sharp. With the heat, definitely leather-glove terrain. It was wild.
We hacked and pulled taffy till they got bored with it. We separated out crystals to let them cool in the snow (they are covered with black shiny roughness), and kept some cooled examples of the taffy pulls, complete with imprints where the ice axe pick had been.
I was cognizant that this is likely an experience I'll not have again in this lifetime. Hot live molten earth, rock in the making (weird rock as it is), the real thing. Almost surreal. Since coming here, I'd fantasized about simply seeing the orange lava lake; pulling taffy only became possible this year, an experience too wild to hope too much for.
I have to admit that, along with certain other members of their group, I didn't exactly avoid opportunities to hang out at the rim in the hazard zone. I knew I'd be able to keep my head about me and dodge, but wanted to experience it, to viscerally feel the power of the mountain vomiting. It didn't happen, but I did watch/hear/feel an eruption, from the moment before the enormous bubble arose, to the bombs flying as high as us but then falling back into the crater. I also saw deep in the crater little lava-gas bubbles fling orange bombs onto the cliffs above the lava lake, which was covered with layers of bomb-lava much like the accumulation of candle wax drippings. Expert consensus was that the lava in the lake is viscous enough to walk on (hold your breath!), but not enough to ride a horse on.
I have a bit of a geology background, and made a point to build on that as it pertains to Erebus (and other volcanoes), talking with Nelia and Bill who were exceptionally generous with their time and expertise. Truly fascinating.
Would you believe these are not all the charms of Mt Erebus? Steam sneaks out of the mountain in many locations, and slowly melts its way out of the deep snow/ice above which slowly moves downhill, leaving marvelous caves to explore (and fall into if you're not careful walking or snowmobiling around). Our last night, Bill attached a ladder across his snowmobile, and we all headed to a new cave, the entrance of which we checked out earlier.
We needed headlamps. One doesn't normally bring a headlamp to Antarctica in summer, so I was relieved when Bill, with a smirk, pulled one out of his pocket for me.
Yup, this was also incredibly cool. Much like my first time on the rim, I wanted to be alone to absorb it all, as best I could, privately. I also wanted to explore every single alcove, tunnel, corner, and nook in the cave system. I wanted to make a mental map of the cave as well, get to know it. This one was shaped like a circle with a long tail ending at some fumeroles, hollow towers of frozen steam that later we climbed out through. I basked in the wonderful hues of blue in thinner parts of the roof overhead, and admired the Erebus crystals showing up so clearly in the rock (not bomb-rock, but an ancient lava flow). These caves are relatively warm and quite humid.
I looked for little squeeze slots that might lead to bigger chambers. I did indeed find one unobvious narrow hole in particular, which led into a secret magic crystal chamber. I left my axe outside so that they wouldn't get worried as to my location, and squeezed my narrow frame down. It opened up into a room with, I pause as I write, incredible crystals, a type of faceted crystal, but centimeters across and deep and all over the ceiling, walls, and some on the rocks as well. It was like being in cathedral art gallery, I was very careful not to bump the walls and destroy these fantastic shapes. Turns out they are quiet durable. I picked one, plucked like a wild huckleberry, off the walls to feel it and take photos of an isolated one. They are three dimensional, and when I dropped it (gasp!), it remained intact. I went further into this closet-sized room, and found another alcove with different crystals. And can you imagine how quiet it is?
Hmmm. How to get an NSF grant to study how/where the different crystals form...
There was a bulb of ice, absolutely clear transparent ice, hanging 2' off the ceiling. I could see my hand perfectly through 6" of this ice. I've never seen anything like it, didn't realize ice could actually form like glass, for real.
Another crystal chamber sported enormous dangling crystals of shapes I've also never seen before, even in crevasses, and different than the last. And fibrous hair crystals grew up from a rock. Again, mind-blowing. I was grateful for aloneness to just be with it. I've not seen crystals like these in photos in avalanche books either.
Then there was another room that the others discovered, guarded by more clear-glass ice, but this time in stalagmites sticking up from the floor a meter or so, a couple having formed together. These were named the kachinas and this is now the Kachina Cave. Behind the guardians, in their own room, were the largest crystals I have ever seen. I kid you not: these needle-like crystals, somewhat intertwined (grew at angles into and across each other) were 12-15" (yeah, fifteen inches) long, hanging off the ceiling. Unreal. Some were lying on the floor, so I could handle and inspect them for the secret of their magnificence. They did not reveal it.
No doubt they have formed very slowly in a consistent humid environment over much time, with no disturbances such as air movement. Presumably this explains... something?
Whatever. They were simply magical. Delicate, exotic, varied, a gift to see them. How many crystalline forms can the humble water molecule take?
I reread this and laugh. Yes, despite sounding like a child, it is true that I am nearly 40!
And I did take photos, which will give you the most basic idea at least.
Ok, a bit more about station life. Life in the Antarctic Program, even mine, is not all about drooling over volcanoes, crystals, and penguins. I do have days where I'm in the office or building almost the whole day, including hours in front of the computer on various projects including running the Secondary SAR team trainings. And last week my boss was away again so I was acting supervisor which kept me hustling.
Recently a congressional delegation visited for a few days. Among others, Johns McCain and Sununu were issued big red jackets and given first class treatment as they checked out how the NSF Office of Polar Programs spends your tax dollars.
One place this money is going these days is into ships. The ice has not gone out this year despite the mega-berg B-15 finally leaving. During it's presence, the ice became thicker each year, seriously affecting local penguin and seal populations as well as needing more time to weaken, break up, and "go out".
Sea ice desalinates over time. What this means is that now the ice itself has to reach 32 degrees F to melt, not 28.5, the temp at which sea water freezes here.
It looks like that berg set into motion a chain of events, a negative feedback loop that will last who knows how long, leaving the NSF with serious difficulties getting ships in to resupply the station. The ships are nearby and have been in and out of the channel varying distances, but the channel in the ice is packed full of ice pieces (refreeze) and won't clear because it's long and wiggly. The compression in the ice that greatly affected sea ice travel earlier in the season is now slowly narrowing the channel. The US icebreakers are out of commission, and the contracted Russian icebreaker broke a propeller... on goes the drama. We are all most eager to see what will happen. The costs this year have increased about 650%, thus far. It's pricey to have the fuel and resupply vessels just sitting there, as well as the Russian ship. Not to mention 70 tattooed Navy cargo handlers hanging around McM waiting for work to do.
But seeing Russians occasionally in the galley is quite interesting. It seems the women are tall, wearing stiletto heels arm and arm with a short guy wearing a fur hat, and they stare straight ahead (can't blame them as we stare at them!). Fun to have a little cultural exposure right here in "Mactown".
The contractor continues to tighten the noose on the local population; too bad their contract was renewed last year. There are fewer and fewer opportunities to get out of town for most people, ridiculous safety rules (see Oct or Nov update), more and more paperwork, less and less trust in us and they discourage thinking, especially creatively. They are trying to reduce the number of people who receive evaluations of "exceeds expectations" to save the extra 2% you get on your bonus for that, and also refuse to rectify the alcohol-ordering error so created a season long shortage of alcohol. The dishwashers are getting more carpal tunnel than ever. People are afraid to get injuries treated because injuries affect future employment. Our dept is particularly understaffed and this year, under-vehicled, which has caused a number of problems that are not unique to us.
Morale is low; people are exhausted, burned out, and especially eager to leave this year. RPSC sent out a survey trying to find out why so many senior full-time people haven't been returning. Next year will be interesting as things have deteriorated further this year.
I, however, live a pretty insulated life down here. I am in Direct Science Support, an enclave of rationality. Better yet, my boss (and his boss) have little tolerance for crap, so hold the line pretty well, advocating for reality, and keeping our jobs overall quite doable and even enjoyable. As the Field Safety Department, many of the industrial safety rules don't apply to our terrain. We are permitted to operate under the safety guidelines of mountaineering and guiding, which of course is something we know about and they don't. As long as we maintain our safety record...
Our new folks (all 3) have been really great, yea. And now that our dept is 40% female for the first time ever, our little culture shifts further. We all work together well and avoid much of the politics and pettiness I hear of in many larger departments.
As you can imagine we are rather tight-lipped about the opportunities we have. I have only told two people, including Larry, the details about Erebus. Fortunately Larry also gets out with some regularly to build field camps for the researchers. They work fast so they can explore before the helo returns. He is there without the grantees being around, while we are there with the scientists. Both have their advantages, but I think I prefer getting to learn from the grantees, some of whom are wonderful.
I am doing well. I am scheduled to fly north on Feb 17th, and plan to spend 4 days in Christchurch (NZ) before heading home to ski Ski SKI with Larry. What's the snowpack been like? Tell me about seeing animal tracks in the forest snow, hearing the trees crack in the cold, and making graceful turns in deep powder... (I have goosebumps!) (What a flake).
Take care of yourself, and feel free to drop a note or photo now and then.
Love and late winter thaws, Susan
I finally made it up to Mt. Erebus, the 12,800' active volcano that explains the existence of Ross Island. I went up for area familiarization for Search and Rescue, and to help them with camp close-out. After acclimatizing for a day at a lower camp, we were flown to the hut on the caldera, which is the lower angle break in the mountain's profile.
My time up there constituted some of the most amazing experiences I've had. The lava lake, only 42m across but 1000' down in the 1000' diameter crater, is spewing lava bombs for the first time since I graduated from high school. I learned the protocols for what to do when there's an eruption: drop your pack if it's heavy, face uphill, and look up in the air for bombs falling toward you. The ones that barely make it out of the crater could come at you horizontally, so you have to watch out for those too.
But realistically, one's chances of getting hit are quite slim and approaching zero along certain parts of the rim. Only a VERY small percentage of terrain is hit in any one eruption, even if you include the bouncing and skidding of bombs along the surface (which, by the way, is largely composed of 1984 and much older bombs that have disintegrated in the acidic steam, leaving the Erebus crystals covering the ground in between the bombs).
The volcanologists up there have seismometers all over the mountain, as well as cameras on the rim watching the action and showing it in the hut and in the lab in McMurdo. They had a pretty good idea of how many hours between eruptions (one or more per day) and how big was big, so we could time our rim visits to minimize the chance of being there during a big eruption. Sometimes the active steam vent erupts, emitting a lot of steam, but no bombs. Normal eruptions sound much like avalanche bombing... a large deep reverberating BOOM!
At times we were on the sides of the mtn and upon returning to the hut we discovered via the seismometers that we'd missed an eruption so we'd replay the video and see how big it was. One time you could see lava flying toward the camera: a blob getting bigger fast, then dropping out of sight right in front of the camera. Then you could see steam rising from the bomb in the snow below the camera. Later I checked it out and the bomb, about the size of a cat, had hit the vertical snow of the rim just below the camera, slid down a meter, and was still there stuck in the vertical snow. Crazy.
On the video in the hut you can sometimes see shock waves from the boom, and Nelia and Bill report that the force of a big eruption can knock you down if you're on the rim.
They grantees were, among many things, collecting smaller bombs to later examine their chemical composition and to determine the extent of this year's bomb throwing (ie how big is "bomb alley"). Fresh bombs are covered with a tannish gold fine hairiness of volcanic glass. Sharp. Some of these fibers fly out of the crater alone and land on the snow as "Pele's hair" (volcano goddess). Smaller bombs are irregular in shape, but the bigger ones, like from 1984, are bulbous. The larger of those have collapsed, leaving a shape much like a red blood cell. The biggest '84 bomb they know of is 11m across, and the biggest this year 3m long. Wouldn't want to find myself calculating the trajectory of something that big. And hot.
Then there are Erebus crystals. They are wonderful for their shape, not for being translucent or dramatically colored. I'll send photos soon. The crystals are a type of feldspar (but different shaped) are thought to slowly form within the convective currents deep within the lava lake.
The first day I went to the rim I found myself rather quiet, trying to absorb everything. There was so much to wrap my brain around. That day the view of the lava was largely obscured by steam, but I sat and stared, and did get good glimpses occasionally. I even saw some orange bubbles rise up like burps out of the highly viscous molten earth. To see pre-rock, full-on live lava gurgling in slow motion, steaming, hissing, and building up pressure, blew my mind. We were on a safe part of the rim, so of course I wanted to see an eruption, but just being there was spellbinding.
Pulling with my ice axe, I later opened up an '84 bomb, now cracked on the outside and hollow from the gases, expanding due to pressure release, having escaped the lava but to the inside because the outside was cooling. The rock on the inside was shiny black, absolutely smooth, much like black shiny taffy where it had been stretched into long fibers. Where it hadn't, it was pocked with large holes where the gases had accumulated.
The outside of the bomb was quite different having been much eroded by the acidic plume. No longer was the bomb irregular, but rounded and all the Erebus crystals were light colored, standing out on the slightly darker surface except where they were obscured by green/yellow sulfur deposits.
I have to admit I have learned to love the smell of sulfur. Between Mt. Baker, Yellowstone, and now Erebus, how could I not? It means I'm in a deeply dynamic place, the smell of live hot earth...
I spent New Year's up there. Five minutes before 2006 we were in the hut playing a game and as always keeping an eye on the monitor showing the crater. BOOM, a big one went off so we hustled to the window to see the action. In two places the snow was steaming... but Bill suggested we finish the game. Afterward, we all jumped on snowmachines, and zipped on up there like little kids giddy with anticipation (some more than others).
I pulled hot lava, like very stiff taffy, out of a fresh hot bomb. This was something I'd heard about and greatly hoped to do, but certainly had no expectation. Bill waited 22 years for this experience. The bomb was about 1.5m x .75m, and still too hot to touch, or so we assumed (too sharp anyway). It had left a 5' round crater in the snow, then bounced out and had slid to it's final location, melting snow along the way.
Bill let me hack into it first, and yes, it was glowing orange inside. I was surprised how stiff it was, one had to lean on the ice axe to pull taffy, which cooled as it was exposed to the cooler air. You could see red-hot Erebus crystals suspended in the lava, re-orienting as pulling taffy brought them into the light of summer. One had to be careful while pulling so hard: good footing in the snow standing over the bomb was important. Bill said the lava was probably about 800+degrees Celcius (8x boiling). You wouldn't try to touch the outside anyway because the fibers are so sharp. With the heat, definitely leather-glove terrain. It was wild.
We hacked and pulled taffy till they got bored with it. We separated out crystals to let them cool in the snow (they are covered with black shiny roughness), and kept some cooled examples of the taffy pulls, complete with imprints where the ice axe pick had been.
I was cognizant that this is likely an experience I'll not have again in this lifetime. Hot live molten earth, rock in the making (weird rock as it is), the real thing. Almost surreal. Since coming here, I'd fantasized about simply seeing the orange lava lake; pulling taffy only became possible this year, an experience too wild to hope too much for.
I have to admit that, along with certain other members of their group, I didn't exactly avoid opportunities to hang out at the rim in the hazard zone. I knew I'd be able to keep my head about me and dodge, but wanted to experience it, to viscerally feel the power of the mountain vomiting. It didn't happen, but I did watch/hear/feel an eruption, from the moment before the enormous bubble arose, to the bombs flying as high as us but then falling back into the crater. I also saw deep in the crater little lava-gas bubbles fling orange bombs onto the cliffs above the lava lake, which was covered with layers of bomb-lava much like the accumulation of candle wax drippings. Expert consensus was that the lava in the lake is viscous enough to walk on (hold your breath!), but not enough to ride a horse on.
I have a bit of a geology background, and made a point to build on that as it pertains to Erebus (and other volcanoes), talking with Nelia and Bill who were exceptionally generous with their time and expertise. Truly fascinating.
Would you believe these are not all the charms of Mt Erebus? Steam sneaks out of the mountain in many locations, and slowly melts its way out of the deep snow/ice above which slowly moves downhill, leaving marvelous caves to explore (and fall into if you're not careful walking or snowmobiling around). Our last night, Bill attached a ladder across his snowmobile, and we all headed to a new cave, the entrance of which we checked out earlier.
We needed headlamps. One doesn't normally bring a headlamp to Antarctica in summer, so I was relieved when Bill, with a smirk, pulled one out of his pocket for me.
Yup, this was also incredibly cool. Much like my first time on the rim, I wanted to be alone to absorb it all, as best I could, privately. I also wanted to explore every single alcove, tunnel, corner, and nook in the cave system. I wanted to make a mental map of the cave as well, get to know it. This one was shaped like a circle with a long tail ending at some fumeroles, hollow towers of frozen steam that later we climbed out through. I basked in the wonderful hues of blue in thinner parts of the roof overhead, and admired the Erebus crystals showing up so clearly in the rock (not bomb-rock, but an ancient lava flow). These caves are relatively warm and quite humid.
I looked for little squeeze slots that might lead to bigger chambers. I did indeed find one unobvious narrow hole in particular, which led into a secret magic crystal chamber. I left my axe outside so that they wouldn't get worried as to my location, and squeezed my narrow frame down. It opened up into a room with, I pause as I write, incredible crystals, a type of faceted crystal, but centimeters across and deep and all over the ceiling, walls, and some on the rocks as well. It was like being in cathedral art gallery, I was very careful not to bump the walls and destroy these fantastic shapes. Turns out they are quiet durable. I picked one, plucked like a wild huckleberry, off the walls to feel it and take photos of an isolated one. They are three dimensional, and when I dropped it (gasp!), it remained intact. I went further into this closet-sized room, and found another alcove with different crystals. And can you imagine how quiet it is?
Hmmm. How to get an NSF grant to study how/where the different crystals form...
There was a bulb of ice, absolutely clear transparent ice, hanging 2' off the ceiling. I could see my hand perfectly through 6" of this ice. I've never seen anything like it, didn't realize ice could actually form like glass, for real.
Another crystal chamber sported enormous dangling crystals of shapes I've also never seen before, even in crevasses, and different than the last. And fibrous hair crystals grew up from a rock. Again, mind-blowing. I was grateful for aloneness to just be with it. I've not seen crystals like these in photos in avalanche books either.
Then there was another room that the others discovered, guarded by more clear-glass ice, but this time in stalagmites sticking up from the floor a meter or so, a couple having formed together. These were named the kachinas and this is now the Kachina Cave. Behind the guardians, in their own room, were the largest crystals I have ever seen. I kid you not: these needle-like crystals, somewhat intertwined (grew at angles into and across each other) were 12-15" (yeah, fifteen inches) long, hanging off the ceiling. Unreal. Some were lying on the floor, so I could handle and inspect them for the secret of their magnificence. They did not reveal it.
No doubt they have formed very slowly in a consistent humid environment over much time, with no disturbances such as air movement. Presumably this explains... something?
Whatever. They were simply magical. Delicate, exotic, varied, a gift to see them. How many crystalline forms can the humble water molecule take?
I reread this and laugh. Yes, despite sounding like a child, it is true that I am nearly 40!
And I did take photos, which will give you the most basic idea at least.
Ok, a bit more about station life. Life in the Antarctic Program, even mine, is not all about drooling over volcanoes, crystals, and penguins. I do have days where I'm in the office or building almost the whole day, including hours in front of the computer on various projects including running the Secondary SAR team trainings. And last week my boss was away again so I was acting supervisor which kept me hustling.
Recently a congressional delegation visited for a few days. Among others, Johns McCain and Sununu were issued big red jackets and given first class treatment as they checked out how the NSF Office of Polar Programs spends your tax dollars.
One place this money is going these days is into ships. The ice has not gone out this year despite the mega-berg B-15 finally leaving. During it's presence, the ice became thicker each year, seriously affecting local penguin and seal populations as well as needing more time to weaken, break up, and "go out".
Sea ice desalinates over time. What this means is that now the ice itself has to reach 32 degrees F to melt, not 28.5, the temp at which sea water freezes here.
It looks like that berg set into motion a chain of events, a negative feedback loop that will last who knows how long, leaving the NSF with serious difficulties getting ships in to resupply the station. The ships are nearby and have been in and out of the channel varying distances, but the channel in the ice is packed full of ice pieces (refreeze) and won't clear because it's long and wiggly. The compression in the ice that greatly affected sea ice travel earlier in the season is now slowly narrowing the channel. The US icebreakers are out of commission, and the contracted Russian icebreaker broke a propeller... on goes the drama. We are all most eager to see what will happen. The costs this year have increased about 650%, thus far. It's pricey to have the fuel and resupply vessels just sitting there, as well as the Russian ship. Not to mention 70 tattooed Navy cargo handlers hanging around McM waiting for work to do.
But seeing Russians occasionally in the galley is quite interesting. It seems the women are tall, wearing stiletto heels arm and arm with a short guy wearing a fur hat, and they stare straight ahead (can't blame them as we stare at them!). Fun to have a little cultural exposure right here in "Mactown".
The contractor continues to tighten the noose on the local population; too bad their contract was renewed last year. There are fewer and fewer opportunities to get out of town for most people, ridiculous safety rules (see Oct or Nov update), more and more paperwork, less and less trust in us and they discourage thinking, especially creatively. They are trying to reduce the number of people who receive evaluations of "exceeds expectations" to save the extra 2% you get on your bonus for that, and also refuse to rectify the alcohol-ordering error so created a season long shortage of alcohol. The dishwashers are getting more carpal tunnel than ever. People are afraid to get injuries treated because injuries affect future employment. Our dept is particularly understaffed and this year, under-vehicled, which has caused a number of problems that are not unique to us.
Morale is low; people are exhausted, burned out, and especially eager to leave this year. RPSC sent out a survey trying to find out why so many senior full-time people haven't been returning. Next year will be interesting as things have deteriorated further this year.
I, however, live a pretty insulated life down here. I am in Direct Science Support, an enclave of rationality. Better yet, my boss (and his boss) have little tolerance for crap, so hold the line pretty well, advocating for reality, and keeping our jobs overall quite doable and even enjoyable. As the Field Safety Department, many of the industrial safety rules don't apply to our terrain. We are permitted to operate under the safety guidelines of mountaineering and guiding, which of course is something we know about and they don't. As long as we maintain our safety record...
Our new folks (all 3) have been really great, yea. And now that our dept is 40% female for the first time ever, our little culture shifts further. We all work together well and avoid much of the politics and pettiness I hear of in many larger departments.
As you can imagine we are rather tight-lipped about the opportunities we have. I have only told two people, including Larry, the details about Erebus. Fortunately Larry also gets out with some regularly to build field camps for the researchers. They work fast so they can explore before the helo returns. He is there without the grantees being around, while we are there with the scientists. Both have their advantages, but I think I prefer getting to learn from the grantees, some of whom are wonderful.
I am doing well. I am scheduled to fly north on Feb 17th, and plan to spend 4 days in Christchurch (NZ) before heading home to ski Ski SKI with Larry. What's the snowpack been like? Tell me about seeing animal tracks in the forest snow, hearing the trees crack in the cold, and making graceful turns in deep powder... (I have goosebumps!) (What a flake).
Take care of yourself, and feel free to drop a note or photo now and then.
Love and late winter thaws, Susan
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