Mid Season....

This morning I crossed the 49th parallel headed into Canada in Orange, my trusty Volkswagen bus (ehem… reverse is beginning to grind suggesting a failing clutch that I replaced all too recently). I’m halfway through my summer racing season with a collection of mixed, but far from unsatisfactory, results.

Following the Black Canyon race in the middle of May, I knew that I was on my way to getting myself back into the shape I was before I left for Antarctica, but still with some work to do. Back home, near Aspen, I resorted to doing the age old repeats that I’ve been doing since I was in high school… on, none other than, my high school track. Quarters. 4x4x4. Simple as it gets, really, but effective as they come. I watched my times drop, second by second, week after week. As much as I dread them, there’s nothing that compares to an old fashion speed workout. They are as honest as the laws of physics.

The speed workouts and the hill repeats paid off and by the time Mount Washington rolled around I was beginning to feel like a runner again.

Mount Washington itself was a thrill. I chased young, Glen Randall off the gun. I didn’t want him to get away as he did at Pike’s last year. Admittedly, I thought nothing of it when he took off like a bullet at Pike’s and didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. He held the pace for less than a mile and I found myself leading comfortably through the third (of 7.6) mile.

My pace slackened and looking back I found, to my surprise, Tommy Manning hot on my tail. I don’t know why I was surprised that Tommy was right there. He’s a top-notch runner, which he proved at the World Mountain Running Championships in Slovenia last year where he was the fourth and final scorer for the US team, solidifying a silver medal for us in the process. Tommy passed me, put a hundred meters on me and for the next three miles I did all I could just to keep him in my sight. It’s a different mantra for every race I run and this time it was keep rollin’, keep rollin’, keep rollin’, keep rollin’. And I did. I reeled him in with a little less than a mile to go and gapped him with a half mile to go taking the win with my second fastest time on the Big Hill.

I spent a few extra days in the New England visiting some good friends from the South Pole, running the Presidential Range, cycling around Martha’s Vineyard and drinking some fine, home-made hard cider.

From there I flew to San Francisco and drove to Tahoe where I paced my Salomon teammate, Kilian Jornet to his first win in the Western States 100. With the exception of losing the trail for nearly 20 minutes, Kilian had a flawless race, running casually the entire time. After a few pleasant days in San Francisco I returned home to begin the training for my biggest project in years – my first ultra.

The ultra marathon never use to interest me. Quite simply, the idea for running 9 minute, 10 minute, heck! 15 minute pace for 10, 20, 30 hours had absolutely no appeal. However, over the past couple of years, talking to more and more people that have been brought into the sport, the idea of spending hours and hours…. the entire day, for that matter on the trail has taken my interest to a new level.

I’ve been very lucky to be able to pick the brains of Scott Jurek, Tony Krupicka, Joe Grant, Geoff Roes, Kilian Jornet and many others. The advice I’ve been given has ranged from how to carry a water bottle most efficiently, how much to eat, controlling the highs and the lows, on and on.

I decided on the Canadian Death Race for my first ultra for several reasons but primarily because it fits nicely into my summer schedule and getting there provides a great reason for a road trip which is where I am right now – day 9 behind the greatest automobile to ever roll the earth, with a wonderful and seasoned travel companion – my mom.

The training for this adventure has been wonderful and I’m becoming aware of the emptiness that I’ve been told might hit me in the days before the race – the time when the training has to end. Making myself hit the trails for five or six hours at a time has been pure bliss. In the past month alone I’ve logged hundreds of miles in the White Mountains, Sierra Nevadas, San Juans, Elks, Tetons, Glacier and Yellowstone. Really, what more could one ask for.

I am not, however, “switching over” as more than one has accused me of doing (mostly in jest). I am not “switching over” because I am beginning to believe that there is no “over”. It is my belief that the many factions that have formed in trail running are part of what keeps it resting in niche. 10k trail, 10k mountain, 1/2 marathon trail, marathon trail, 50k trail, 50 mile trail, 100k trail, 100 mile trail…. Doesn’t anybody else agree that there are entirely too many divisions in the sport?

The sport is reaching a new level of competitiveness and attention where runners are not only doing well at all of these distances, but are quite simply dominating. I’m speaking of Max King and Kilian Jornet – the former taking it a step further by dominating off the trails as well (2:15 marathon?)

Okay, enough ranting.

As for the Canadian Death Race… I have no idea how it will go. I have good feelings about it. I’ve learned as much as I can learn without actually doing the race, though I suspect the learning curve is going to be steep come Saturday. I’ve trained as much as I can train without risking serious injury (and that includes narrowly getting struck by lightning). At this point all I can do is lace up and run.

It’s past 11 o’clock at night and there’s still light in the sky. A herd of elk is tromping through the pond just outside Orange. Sandhill cranes are squawking loudly to keep them from trudging through their nesting grounds. My mom is snoring.

Black Canyon Ascent and... yes, another Road Trip

Trying to escape what is becoming one of the most oppressive Springs on record, here in Colorado, I loaded up my motorcycle with running shoes, camera, and lots of warm clothes and headed to Southern Colorado and into Northern New Mexico. With no real itinerary, I simply pointed the bike in the direction of Alamosa where my good friend Simon Gutierrez lives and hoped for the best in weather.

Simon and Me

Six hours of riding left me ready for some beers and a burger at Simon's favorite place in Alamosa - The San Juan Brewery. It was Wednesday. I told him that i might head to the Grand Canyon by the weekend and he quickly informed me that the Black Canyon Ascent was on Saturday. It didn't take much to convince me to do the Black Canyon Ascent - a race that I've known about for years but have never made it to the starting line. Simon also mentioned that there's a $200 purse for nabbing his course record.

The next 72hrs I spent, rushing the 350 round-trip miles to Albuquerque and back to visit my sister and her husband. She and I went for a run, which we've never done before. She showed me some fine desert trails not far from her place - complete with the New Mexican flair of discarded couches, chair and mattresses along the way. Pizza and beer.

Running outside Albuquerque

Sleep. Coffee and a scone then back to Southern Colorado for some fun in the Sand Dunes for the evening and morning.

Looking North towards Crestone

Back across the Rockies for a second time, avoiding the many deer that line the road as you approach the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. A friend and I met up with Simon and Brandy Erholtz on Friday night. Burgers, beer, bed.

Just before the Saturday morning start, I got to talking to a runner who mentioned that this would be his last year to try and break the 50-59 age group category (he'll be 60 next year). Chuck Smead, he tells me his name. Winner of the 1977 Sierre Zinal and probably the first American to travel to Europe as a mountain runner. He told me that he just finished reading my memoirs to which I replied that I'm 29 for five more days - much too young for memoirs.

L to R: Chuck Smead (Colorado Flag), Myself, Scott Drum, Marty Wacker, Brandy Erholtz, Simon Gutierrez

Simon took the race out somewhat fast, which is something that he's good at. I caught up to him one mile in and maintained the lead to the finish. Based on my effort (I didn't have a watch on to check mile splits), I felt like I was in a good position for the record. Rounding the final corner and seeing that I was in fact 1:30 slow was a little disheartening. This is training fuel, though - being behind. Brandy won the women's race without any problem but also found herself several minutes behind her own course record (which I don't see getting broken by anybody but her).

The course was beautiful - finishing only a few hundred feet from the rim of the Black Canyon - truly one of the most awe-inspiring canyons that I have ever been to. The race was very well organized (complete with a bluegrass band at the finish!), and the organizers gracious. Following the race we were treated to a wine tasting on Main St. in Montrose.

After a peaceful night of camping and a casual 16miler with Brandy and Simon in the morning I returned to Woody Creek to a still persistant winter and much training to be done for the upcoming months.

outside Albuquerque

Spring, 2011

Let’s see… where was I?

I was in the desert the other day. South of Moab, where a friend owns a small piece of property with an Airstream trailer that hasn’t moved in 20 years, I realized that I’d hardly been in a single spot for over a week in nearly three months. For a brief moment, I actually felt bad for myself as the constant moving has had an effect on my that’s somehow not fatigue, but something more like numbness. Four continents, four countries and one non-country. But I quickly reminded myself that none of the places I’ve been have sucked.

In January, myself and three others were scheduled to fly from the South Pole Station to McMurdo Station (on the coast) to compete in the Antarctica Marathon. A friend and former winner of the Marathon flew out on a Friday for the race on Sunday. By late Friday night, all Saturday flights scheduled to fly in or out of the South Pole were cancelled, dashing any hopes to compete in the Marathon.

When life gives you lemons…

With the help of several people around the station, we designed a Marathon course around the South Pole Station. The surveyors helped us get an exact distance (Start at the South Pole, run once around the Station and five times up and down the airplane ski-way, finish back at the Pole). Official timers, aid stations (this was no more than a duffel bag at the end of the ski-way complete with hand-warmers, hot broth, hot chocolate, a two-way radio, a sleeping bag and a small toilet bucket which, thankfully, was used minimally), photographers, etc made what we had dubbed the South Pole Contingency Marathon.

photo: Haley Buffman

The temperature remained steady at about –18f for the duration of the race. The wind, however, brought the chill down to –40f/c or colder depending on which direction you were heading on the ski-way. Several people joined us for the first few miles of the Marathon and even more showed up at the finish. The station manager approached me after the race, very excited, saying that he thinks this might become a tradition. I said, god I hope not.

Though I appreciate the distinction that goes along with the race (2nd marathon ever to run at the South Pole – check out www…. to see a disastrous first marathon run by Dean Karnazas and three others in 2002), I really had my mind set on the McMurdo marathon – running on sea-ice, past penguins, volcanoes, in relative warmth (they were running in t-shirts!)- and still hope to someday be able to compete in it.

Good write-ups on the Marathon:

From Marco

From Pablo

New Zealand
I left the South Pole on the 15th of February. First flight in, (2nd to) last flight out. From the LC130, I waved goodbye to the winter-overs, who would not see another plane come or go for the next eight months.

I was fortunate enough to have a one-night layover in McMurdo before continuing on to New Zealand. I made the most of the 24hrs I was there and ran nearly every trail that McMurdo has to offer – most with Christina Knoblocker who was also scheduled to run the McMurdo Marathon but had to run the South Pole Contingency Marathon instead (becoming the first and only woman to run a marathon at the South Pole). We ran to Scott’s Hut, Castle Rock, towards Mt. Erebus, along the sea-ice (where, after four months on the continent, I finally saw some fricken penguins!) and back to McMurdo. I attempted and broke the FKT up Observation Hill (former record 7:07 or 6:40 depending on who you talk to. I ran 6:06. It’s a hill – these are minutes and seconds, not hours). I drank Laphroig at $3/shot late into the night and bid farewell to the continent I called home for the previous four months.

Waiting for me in New Zealand was my trusty steel-frame Trek 500 laden with panniers full of camping gear and extra clothes. I was soon on the road heading south out Christchurch with nothing on my mind but covering miles and miles. Having been deprived of vegetation, warmth, humidity, smells and wildlife for 1/3 of a year, I had every intention of running wild like a madman along world famous trails across the South Island, which, given the contrast of the two landscapes, is a perfect recipe for an immediate injury. I tweeked my Achilles’ tendon only three days into my trip. The pain prevented me from running again for the next five weeks. On the bike, the pain was mild and manageable so I continued on and rode 1300 miles before returning to Christchurch.

State-side
I returned to Aspen with bald tires and an itch for skiing. I dusted off my Hippy Stinks and managed to get in five full days of telemarking in before heading to Boulder where my trusted masseur had my Achilles’ feeling better in a matter of several painful minutes.

A run up Green Mountain with Dakota Jones, Scott Jurek, Joe Grant and Geoff Roes the following morning had me wishing a little that I’d have not pulled up my roots from this town – a town that has served as the American Mecca for cycling, climbing, collegiate running and now trail/mtn/ultra running. I returned to Boulder – the others continued on to Nederland, some 25 miles up the trail.

France
I arrived in Nice at the beginning of April and was quickly brought to a small village an hour’s drive down the coast where Salomon was hosting a fifth annual “Advanced Week” where several Salomon runners from across the world congregate, check out the newest shoes and products and give feedback – what we’d like to see for future products. It must be said that there are few programs that compare to this – where an athlete gives a suggestion and the results are visible in the product the following year.

My Achilles’ felt better throughout the week, running along the Mediterranean, amid Herbs de Provence. I raced a fun, bush-whacky 29k on Saturday, finishing in abnormal heat (90f) coming from very far behind (70th place at 5k) to place 4th. On Sunday, feeling a bit better, I ran a 21k race with several other members of the International Salomon Team, finishing second behind none-other than our very own team manager – a former Mountain Bike Racer who’s been doing a lot of closet training.

Mexico
I returned to Boulder for a few days before getting back on a plane for Mexico where I met up with a long-time friend for an eight-day run-around. It is safe to say that we redefined what is possible to accomplish just over a week in Mexico. We visited three Pueblos Magicos, climbed two volcanoes over 15,000ft, visited three museums (Kahlo, Rivera, etc) drank much mescal, ate many tacos, quesadillas, chile relleños, attended a brutal bullfight and managed a very solid week of fast and numerous miles.

Home
So now I’m at home, trying my best to stay put.

Some changes that I’ve been contemplating for this coming summer: I will again be pacing Killian Jornet at Western States. I will be pacing Julien Chorier at Hard Rock. I will be returning to Mount Washington in June to try and better my time. I will be returning to the Vail Teva Games for the 1/2 Marathon and 10k. In August, I'll be pairing up with Anna Frost to compete in the Trans Rockies six-day stage race. Lastly, I will be competing in my first ultra – the 80 mile Canadian Death Race in Alberta Canada. To prepare for it, I have grown out my hair and beard, painted my toenails and upped my miles.

Christmas morning was warm for South Pole standards (–12f). Warm enough, that I got away with wearing three layers on my torso rather than four and no balaclava. About 40 of us – dishwashers, scientists, Cat drivers, doctor, carpenters, ice drillers etc. – gathered at the starting line with rudimentary xeroxed numbers pinned to our jackets for the annual Race around the World – a 2.1 mile race around the South Pole Station.

The course normally laps the pole two or three times – giving the slower runners/walkers a chance to bail after a lap. With various interesting landmarks scattered about the station, I suggested to the course designer, Megan, that she make it a single lap course and include these landmarks. She handed me a map and said, “you design it.” Together we came up with an interesting course providing a nearly comprehensive tour of the entire station.

At ten o’clock left we left the starting line from in front of the main station and made our way out towards what is called the clean air sector (where the cleanest air on earth is studied) and then past the quiet sector (where seismic activity is recorded). From there the course made it’s way through the waste berms before ascending the ski hill, a 40’ tall mound of snow, collected from around the station. We passed by a wall of large empty spools out near the End of the World… yes, proper noun.

The End of the World is the edge of the station in the direction of New Zealand, where year after year of snowdrifts get pushed out a mile… now a mile and a half to keep the station relatively even. I train out here constantly, running out to a warming shack and beyond where you can really feel the immensity of the Antarctic Plateau – cold, brutal and powerful. It is a Rothco painting of blue and white. The blue has light streaks of white in it and the white reflects the blue. It makes me feel the same way the Grand Canyon makes me feel – insignificant, yes, but also alive and carefree. But nearly halfway into a race, I’m not contemplating any of these things. I’m just running.

Through a collection of excess tin arches, left over from the building of parts of the station we made our way alongside the runway where day after day large, Air Force LC130s and small Baslers come and go bringing cargo, food, scientists, mail and beer and taking with them trash, dishwashers and other scientists.

As is tradition, the race is not just open to runners but to skiers, snowmobiles, snowcats and other heavy machinery as well. Motoring along beside me for the final 1/2 mile was Bruce on a snowmobile, towing a sled with a couch full of spectators and another snowmobile towing a skier.

We turned onto the runway, towards South America then turned once more towards the South Pole where the snowmachines bowed out just before the finish.

I won the race in 13:32 – two seconds slower than the time I had predicted for the course. In addition to having my name on the “scroll” (think of it as the South Pole Newspaper where everything from flight information and daily happenings to temperature and a quote of the day are looped through 24/7), I won a free trip to the coast of Antarctica for the Antarctica Marathon on January 16th.

The marathon has been going on for over a decade – an out and back, past emperor penguins, sea ice and Mount Erabus (one of the tallest active volcanos in the world), which is all well and good, but in this micro-society where six, ten hour days are the norm, most consider the biggest perk of it all to be the three days off from work… yes, even if you do have to run 26 miles on snow and ice to earn it.

Now with only ten days remaining, my long runs are over and only the stretching and tapering remains.

South Pole Vignettes

I’ve been at the South Pole for over six weeks. My eyes keep darting out the galley (cafeteria – the navy being the first to station here in 1954 earned the right to name things. The sleeping quarters are called the berthing areas. Etc.) at what I swear is a bird passing but it turns out to be the reflection of a person passing behind me.

I live in a Jamesway tent (one of 13, or so, that make up “summer camp”) – a long, sturdy tent subdivided into ten rooms with a hallway running down the center. The outside walls are insulated canvas. The inside walls are just regular old canvas. I can hear my neighbors snore and I’m sure they can hear me fart. Round the clock work means that bulldozers pass close by my head often throughout the night. Up to four times a day a “Herc” (large 4 engine Air Force plane) lands on the runway just a few hundred feet from my Jamesway. I try my best to fall asleep in between landings so that I can sleep through the roar of the motors.

For the first five weeks I was in the dishpit, washing dishes from 4am to 2pm, six days a week. My alarm was set for 3:37. 3:38, I found, got me to work the slightest bit too late. The quarter mile walk from my Jamesway (J13) to the Elevated Station where most activities, eating, work etc. take place is almost always against the wind but never too unpleasant as breakfast and coffee are always waiting for me.

It has warmed up in the past couple weeks to temperatures ranging from -35f to –25f. Never in my life would I have considered –25f to feel comfortable but it really is quite comfortable after the first few weeks with temps ranging from –67f (when I got off the plane in October) to –40f. I am told that, for a couple of weeks, the temps will rise up in to the teens… the negative teens, that is.

On a windless day, at –50f you can force a breath at the ground and watch it billow out like an inverted mushroom cloud in all directions about your feet.

With humidity of less than one percent, I was warned that my hands would crack beyond repair. They were doing so well -my hands- and then on day 26, without any warning, they cracked in four different spots. There are things here that require constant maintenance - hydration being one of those things. I skipped drinking water on a run a couple weeks back and it took me two days to get rehydrated.

Up until only ten days ago, the station had absolutely no beer… well there was New Zealand Amstel Lite (2.2%)… and there is still New Zealand Amstel Lite hardly anybody would touch it. When going to the stations store then, your options were Jack Daniels, Wild Turkey or Skyy Vodka (duty free, mind you). It was getting to the point where I thought it to be a conspiracy to turn the entire station into alcoholics.

I am beginning to notice the things that one begins to miss down here. Strange things, like the color green or going out for a run without having to spend 15minutes getting dressed before hand (to go running: polar fleece long underwear and thick tights on my legs, four layers of shirts and jackets on my torso, balaclava, hat, goggles, ski gloves, wool socks and IceSpikes in my shoes). As for running, I’ve been going up and down the 2.5mile runway that runs alongside the station. It’s a little maddening seeing as how the entire length of the runway and the flags that mark the turnaround are visible from the moment I step out there. I am required to carry a two-way radio with me incase an unscheduled flight comes in and I’m forced to clear the runway.

The station population is now at 225 – which I have seen rise from 60 when I arrived. Open mic night was on Saturday and it became immediately obvious that the concentration of musical talent here is much different than elsewhere.

Tourists started to arrive last week. Little did I know that for the low, low price of $40,000 I could have skipped the working gig and just flown down here from Chile. The most recent arrival was the team accompanying the Moon Regan – a propeller driven ski thingie that never moved under it’s own power the entire time it was here (still here, I should say – the team is off for another part of the continent before returning to pick it up).

People return to work here at the South Pole year after year. There are ten year people. A few twenty year people and even one guy that has been coming here since 1978. Initially I didn't see the appeal. I'm beging to realize, though, that the reason people return for so many years has little to do with the South Pole itself and a large part to do with the people. This truly is one of the most unique populations of people in the world.

90° South

We spent the better part of Monday morning on the ice runway waiting for clearance to take off in the Basler DC3. Waiting for the temperature to rise just a couple degrees at the South Pole. At -54°c the plane can land. At –54.1°c it can’t… or at least it’s not suppose to. After a two-hour wait they decided to postpone the flight for 24 hours.

We returned to McMurdo where the worst part of my cold (the McMurdo Crud as it’s called here – everybody gets it at some point during the season) overtook me and I realized that it was a blessing in disguise that we never left the ground. I sat in my room all day, watched movies, read Dune and slept.

Tuesday – wake. Repeat. The temperature at the Pole read 53°c and it was a go… with the possibility of a boomerange – going partway and returning. We loaded our stuff onto the Basler and took our seats.

The flight brought us over a very similar route that Scott took to reach the South Pole over the summer of 1911/12 – across the Ross Ice Shelf, alongside the Trans-Antarctic Range, through the Beardmore Glacier (which is essentially an ice overflow of the Antarctic Plateau) and then 300miles across the Antarctic Plateau. The views from the flight were incredible – truly unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

The Basler DC3 is a plane that has remained largely unchanged since it’s first flight in the mid 1930’s… this includes the lack of pressurization. To cross the Trans-Antarctic Range the plane had to climb to 22,000ft which did nothing but tighten the vise on my head, bringing tears to my eyes. It was a bit of a catch 22, as closing my eyes eased the pain, but also meant missing the scenery outside. I sucked as much oxygen as I could and mostly opted for the tighter vise.

Flying over the Antarctic Plateau gave me my first glimpse of what the scenery would be like for the next few months… or rather lack-there-of. As a Colorado boy, I’m not accustomed to seeing the horizon so close to the ground. In every direction – nothing. Though I knew this would be the case, I didn’t realize what a nothing landscape really looked like until now.

We landed at about 2:30pm (it should be noted that the South Pole goes by McMurdo/New Zealand time for reasons of simplicity – they are the two biggest US bases on the continent and it’s therefore easier to keep them on the same time-zone) and hurried off the plane. We learned shortly that the temperature had dropped to -55°c (-67°f!) and the pilots had to get the plane back off the ground as quick as possible.

The “winter-overs” –the 47 people that spent the 7-month winter here alone- came out to the runway to greet us and help us with our bags. We were asked not to carry our own bags as the altitude (9,300ft is the actual altitude but barometrically speaking rises upwards of 11,000ft on any given day) can be dangerous to those coming directly from sea level.

We are the first new faces these people have seen in seven months. It’s interesting seeing them – pale-faced, awkward and well-bearded. They were happy to see us, but I think happier to see the fresh fruit we brought on the plane with us.

After a meal and a tour of the building I made myself comfortable in a temporary room (I’ll be moving to my permanent room in a week or two when they are able to thaw out the plumbing) and slept fitfully for the next ten hours.

So great to be here.

I Wear My Sunglasses At Night

The engine room drone of the US Air Force C17 all but seized the conversation amongst us 65 passengers on the flight from Christchurch, NZ to the McMurdo Station on the coast of Antarctica. We’re shared the hull of the plane with several “small” shipping containers, a forklift and a large sno-cat. The passengers are a mix of scientists (geologists, meteorologists and biologists), Air Force flight crew and a small portion of the staff that makes up the majority of Antarctica’s summer population. This staff includes shuttle drivers, cooks, radio communication specialists, janitors, US post office employees (subcontracted out to Raytheon who has the contract from the National Science Foundation to run the South Pole Station, McMurdo Station, Palmer Station and several small camps across the continent), logistics coordinators, doctors, gift shop attendants… the list goes on.

A curiosity for this continent germinated inside my bean several years ago and became an obsession only in the past couple years when it occurred to me that getting a job here isn’t impossible. “I’ll wash dishes if I have to,” is what I was telling people over a year ago, and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing for the next four months.

The C17 flight was preceded by a couple days in Christchurch where the weather was lapsing back into a cold and dreary winter… not what we were hoping for before being deprived of warmth, trees, smells that we normally take for granted, night!, for god’s sake! STARS! We flew to Christchurch from Aukland, LA, Denver… wishing I had frequent flyer miles.

We got our first glimpse of the continent (regulars just call it The Ice) four hours into the 5.5 hour flight. The first thought that crossed my mind looking out the tiny bay window of the airplane was of Superman’s little home from the first Superman. Sterile, serene, quiet, perfect. Though Antarctica is all of these things, it is also hostile and unforgiving which I’ve learned in a very short period of time.

Following two very cloudy passes over the station we were able to land on the Ice Runway which is the landing strip used from WinFly (Since airplanes are unable to land in –50f and below no planes fly in or out of McMurdo from about June-September. The first flight in is called the Winter Flight, or simply WinFly) until early December. This runway is constructed annually on the eight-foot-thick Ross Ice Shelf just off shore of McMurdo. A Swedish icebreaker comes in to clear a path through the Ross Sea whence the airfield is moved inland.

We were ushered from the plane to “Ivan” the Terra Bus entirely too quickly to take it all in and driven the mile into McMurdo for a late meal in the one and only cafeteria. After dinner I stole off for a run to Robert F. Scott’s 1904 hut from his Discovery expedition (the one that didn’t end up with his death). Where I encountered a dead seal that I later learned has been there for several years – the conditions have essentially mummified it. I continued my run out to Cape Evans and up the Ridge Trail. It was warm enough (-10f) for an easy run but cold enough that I wasn’t able to stop (not wearing enough clothes) or run fast (wind chill made it drop to –20/-25f). From the high point on the ridge I was able to look out across the Ross Ice Shelf at the mountains on the opposite side of the sea. At 10:30pm the sun was just beginning to go behind the horizon at a low, sweeping angle. At this time of year the sun never dips more than a few degrees below the horizon and even the middle of the night is bright enough that wooden blinds are used in the rooms in order to be able to sleep.

(photo - Haile Buffman)

Nearly a week has passed since my arrival. The next and final flight of my agenda for the next several months was scheduled for yesterday but the airplane that I’ll be flying in (Basler) from here to the South Pole was stuck at an American base in Punta Arenas, Chile for longer than expected, postponing the flight until Monday – two days from now. I was told to have patience waiting for this next leg of the trip – it is sometimes postponed for weeks. The flight into the Pole will be the first flight going there for the year. We’ve been instructed by the chef not to eat any of the “freshies” (fresh fruit) brought in with us on the Basler as the 50-or-so “Polies” that have wintered-over have been without fresh fruit for seven months.

My time here in McMurdo has been spent working in the laundry room where I sorted through a mound of bedding the size of a dump truck. I’ve spent the past four days working in the galley (the cafeteria) – washing dishes for the 900 people here, scrubbing pots and taking advantage of the few things that I’ll be without once I reach the Pole in a few days time – that is dirt, hills and bars. Yes, there are two bars here in McMurdo. Gallagers and The Southern. Last night a live bluegrass band (Phatass Bluegrass) played until midnight at Gallagers.

I have so much to tell about the past week, but I think that this will have to do for now.