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Traveling in Antarctica: Gondwanaland's last child

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By Frosty Wooldridge 

 

 

 

               “Also in these latitudes, as nowhere else on earth, the sea

                girdles the globe, uninterrupted by any mass of land.  Here,        

                since the beginning of time, the winds at 200 miles per hour,

                have mercilessly driven the seas clockwise around the earth

                to return again to their birthplace where they reinforce

                themselves or one another.”      

                                                                               Alfred Lansing

 

 

 

          At 3:00 AM, the woman at the hostel awoke everyone leaving on the plane that day.  We gobbled a quick breakfast and bid goodbye.   The shuttle bus carried us out to the local airport.  An orientation team shepherded us into a conference room where we were given a final safety lecture.  They passed out earplugs, barf bags and lunch sacks.  The trip would last up to ten hours.

          At the airport, the sight of a huge US Air Force C-141 Olive Drab Starlifter jet plane choked me up.  In minutes, I stepped up the stairs and into the bowels of the beast.  The inside was big.  It could easily carry two 18-wheeler tractor-trailers. 

          Four crewmembers ushered us to our webbed seats in four lines facing each other.  Once seated, the flight crew had us count off our numbers to make sure everyone was present.  Once accounted for, the crew shut the hatch and the pilots started the engines.    Four mammoth jet engines surged to life—screaming with a high pitched whine.  The captain thrust the stick forward, powering the engines even higher.  The plane taxied down the runway.

          Before I knew it, a roaring, screaming blast from the engines heightened as the plane gained speed down the runway.  Within moments, 70 people from all 50 states and walks of life flew into the wild blue yonder.

          Once again, I was the ‘Michael Jordan’ of travelers—lifting myself above the clouds as he lifted himself above the rim.  He soared and I soared.   I would come down with a ‘slam-dunk’ at the bottom of the world.

          I sat there looking at those faces—all of us headed to that last frigid outpost on earth where no human could live by him/herself.  Why was I doing such a thing at 50?  I was the same ‘kid’ that wanted to walk the Wall of China.  I hadn’t changed.  I had set a goal to stand on all seven continents in my lifetime.   This would be number six.  I was going to McMurdo where humans ran tests to see how fast humanity was fowling its own environment.  Even as we were there, we pumped sewage and chemicals directly into the ocean.  We disrupted penguin and seabird rookeries by building airport runways between them and the ocean.  I found it ironic that we paid 80 million dollars a year for tobacco price supports, but not a penny for sewage treatment in Antarctica.

          Was I far too naïve in rejecting that type of thinking?  Was it right to pollute the last pristine continent?  Perhaps it was all going along as it should.  “Hell no!”  As one writer said, “Surely if we can destroy our planet home, we can make moves to save ourselves on it.”

            Sitting there, hemmed in like a fan in the bleachers at a basketball game, I couldn’t help speculating about it.

          Below me, endless miles of ocean—and the ceaseless movement of wind and waves—continued as they had in Scott, Amundsen and Shackleton’s time a century ago.  

          Four hours into the flight, my butt hurt, my knees stiffened and my arms felt cold.  It felt like I was sitting on a bench full of nails.   I was so packed into that seating I couldn’t move to relieve my discomfort.  Several people stood to relieve the pressure off their rear ends.  Only five more hours to go before we landed on the ice.   What was I getting myself into?  I looked out one of the tiny windows in the plane.

          While squeezed among bodies, reading Thoreau’s ‘Walden Pond’ for the third time, a new ‘POND’ came into view below me. 

          The ocean yielded to monstrous icebergs many miles long and wide.  Sheer cliffs dropped off into the sea.  They blazed aspirin-white against the blue ocean.  They boomed dramatic and solitary—like a nameless child on the playground left there when everyone else had gone back into class.  They looked as if their world was created to wander aimlessly over the ocean.  But, as they wandered toward warmer climes, their bodies melted.  If winds blew them back toward Antarctic, they would drift back into the pack ice.  There, they would rock in the ceaseless movement of tides, winds and gales brushing across the surface of Gondwanaland’s last child. 

          At one point 120 million years ago, South America, Africa, India, Australia and Antarctica were all one continent named: Gondwanaland.  Because of tectonic plate action and continental drift, it broke up and formed the various continents.  Scientists speculate that India floated around for millions of years until it slammed into Asia and the buckling caused the uplift of the Himalayas.  Mount Everest at 29,035 feet was the highest result of that collision of the once floating landmass of India into Asia.

          Once land came into view, I saw glaciers moving like frozen rivers of ice toward the sea.  Black-rock mountains punctuated a world of white, eternal and driven snow.  Volcanic peaks, seemingly out of place, popped up at intervals.  But mostly, it was a world of whiteness that moved endlessly across the face of the earth.  It looked like white sand dunes blown into smooth and intriguing shapes by the ceaseless wind.

          While still in mid flight, I asked several people why they were coming to the ice.  “To get away from my husband,” one 45-year-old woman said.  She was remarkably fit at her age with a gorgeous mane of Irish red hair.  “What’s wrong with your husband?” I asked.

          “He won’t get off the couch,” she said.  “I got sick of waiting for him to travel with me.”

          “Wasn’t he upset that you left for six months?” I asked.

          “You know,” she said, “after 25 years of marriage, it didn’t faze him.  The separation will be good for us.”

           “For adventure,” a 23-year-old college grad from Washington State said.  “I’m going to snowboard my brains out and kiss a penguin.” 

          “It’s SO beautiful,” said Mark, a five-year veteran of the ice.  “It’s so fantastic to see whales breaching right off shore and penguins walking around and seals playing on the ice.” 

          “Why come down for a sixth season on the ice?” I asked.

          “There’s no end to the magic down there,” he said, scratching his blond beard.  “Besides, I like the lifestyle.  I work five months and travel for seven months.  You can’t beat it.”

          Another five-year veteran named Tamlin, said, “I like the peacefulness.  There is nothing like a stroll under the night sky that lasts for months.”        

          “You’ve wintered over?” I asked.

          “Yes,” she said.  “I’ve seen ‘nacreous clouds’, Herbies, killer whales, Shackleton’s Hut, South Pole, 120 degree below zero temperatures and penguin chicks hatch.  I watched meteors fly across the night sky and the Southern Cross.  I even did the polar plunge.”

          “What’s that?” I asked.

          “You’ll find out,” she said with a smile.

           A former bank president named Mac said, “I’m retired and wanted to do one great adventure in my life.”

          He was short, bald, married and quiet.  He didn’t seem to have any excitement about his adventure.  His wife didn’t care if he left, stayed or returned home.  Yet, he came to the ice continent with his own dreams.

          I met Terri, the head vegetarian chef from New York.  She was a beautiful woman with Phyllis Diller wit.  She promised to whip up delectable foods for us leaf and carrot eaters.

          One guy, sporting silver gray hair, brilliant blue eyes and leathery skin–about 60—didn’t say anything during the whole trip.  Little did I know it then, but ‘Charlie’ would change my life profoundly in the coming months.  

          During the remainder of the flight, most of the passengers were munching the last of their lunch bags, reading, snoring or looking out the tiny windows at the ice below.  I kept reading, but stood up every ten minutes to save my butt from numbness.

          After nine hours, the plane dropped into a slow approach glide toward the ice landing field eight miles away from McMurdo Station.  During the first part of the polar summer, the ice on McMurdo Sound was 10 feet thick and capable of supporting 75 tons of airplane on a laser leveled ice field.

          The massive C-141 Starlifter touched down softly on the ice runway.  I sat in my seat and threw my fist into the air.

          “I’m here,” I muttered to myself.  “I’m in Antarctica.”

 



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