Wintering Over (I)

Richard W. Frank

Wintering Over (I)

From: FRANK, RICHARD

Sent: Tuesday, February 25, 1997 8:32 AM

To: ….

Subject: Once upon a time...

Dear All,

As darkness slowly envelopes the continent, we at McMurdo Station settle in for the long winter's night. After living at the South Pole for the summer, this gargantuan station here on Ross Island will take some getting used to. There are so many more places to hide down here, and there is a subsequent lack of the kind of camaraderie and friendliness that was so special at the pole. I have made it my personal mission to meet and get to know as many of these rednecks while frying their eggs and omelets each morning. But to begin at the beginning...

The trouble really started on Saturday February 8th. My boss Lester called the galley at 10am while I was in the middle of prepping for lunch and promptly interrupted my tranquil and simple existence.

"Rich, there is a winter-over cook position in McMurdo."

"Really?"

"I need to know whether you are interested by noon."

"Ooookaaay"

The next several hours I assaulted everyone around me for advice and proceeded to turn out a mediocre meal. As I have decided in the past, the fact that I was not sure that I could accomplish a daunting task was the best reason for me to want to do it.

Sunday morning Lester let me know that I did have the job and would have to leave the next morning for McMurdo two days earlier than I had planned. I packed Monday morning and worked a full shift before taking off in the C130 for Mactown. I was overwhelmed by the amount of air, people, and dirt. I was sent the next day to Christchurch, NZ for a scant seven days of R&R and to get my psych-eval.

Culture-shock and sensory overload are mild ways of expressing the ensuing week. It was akin to the feeling of the week before finals (always too many things to do in a scant 24 hrs a day. A liberating idea occurred to me as I walked into cathedral square the first morning: I can literally do and buy pretty much what ever I want for the next week (because I will be dreaming about it for the next NINE months). A load of other polees arrived in the next several days, and we reveled in our freedom and the summer warmth of the sun.

We arrived just in time for the annual week-long Christchurch Festival of Flowers. The entire town was bedecked in wreaths of color and aroma which we had but dreamed about in the vast and sterile Antarctic reaches for months. The River Avon was filled with ducks, punters, and sculptures of dolphins and other animals made with flower petals. The Botanical Gardens were awash with every conceivable color. The Rose Garden made me woozy. I spent many an hour poured out on the cool green grass under a shady tree by the banks of the stream. That would be the primary memory that will carry me through the rest of 1997.

There was also a wine and food festival on Sunday complete with adequate live jazz and sublime local wines and double-crème bries. I spent the next several days power shopping without obnoxious salesclerks (Kiwis are among the friendliest people anywhere, indulging with my pale friends at Baily’s Irish Pub and the Dux de Lux with orgasmic vegetarian dishes, and going to the theatre and cinema. The sheer numbers of attractive tall blond women here never ceased to amaze us. It must be the water.

Eugene O'Neil's "Desire under the Elms" was playing at the local theatre, and we gave it a go. On the whole it was well done (except that the kiwis had a problem with the 1850's Faulkneresque accents). Also saw a reprint of "The Big Sleep," "Evita,” and a better than anticipated "Romeo and Juliet."

As the week came to a close (and the credit card receipts piled higher), I found myself eager to get moving in any direction out of town. I actually passed my psychological evaluation with flying colors, and I was therefore green lighted for going back down south. I received more cold-weather gear and sent back on a C130, this time with five travel companions instead of fifty-five. We all stretched out on the benches and slept for the seven-hour flight.

Now I find myself with an oversized room with a TV, sofa, coffee table, desk, and king size bed instead of a drafty and curtained Jamesway. The galley is indescribably huge and impersonal. We have an extra 100 people staying past the station closing last Saturday until reverse Winfly on March 7. We have an additional 10 people helping in the galley until then. I must have pissed off the gods in a previous life because I have to do omelets and eggs to order for the next 9 months. Actually, I am glad I got the breakfast and lunch shift because it is the best way to get to know everyone on station (that might not be such a great idea considering the scary nature of most of our bearded, long-haired, grimy, unkempt, red-neck populace from Idaho, Montana and other Freemen areas). I am sure they are not as intimidating as their tattoos suggest (though they might not be as receptive as could be hoped to my collection of Sinatra, Elvis, funk, soul, and dance music). The facilities are awesome but regulated to frustratingly short hours (we didn't neeeed hoooours at poooole). I do find myself choking back many comments on the nobler nature of things at 90S.

I shall fall for this place too I hope (or just take the money and run). For now, I have my books, music, the net, and grandiose travel plans for the future to keep me warm. E-mail from the "real" world will help to keep me sane during these long and tedious months and will be much appreciated. I hope to hear from you. My new e-mail is frankri.mcmurdo@mcmurdo.gov. Unfortunately, there will be no more real mail or a way out of here until September Winfly. Stay sane during your commutes, don't watch too much Richard Bay and keep in touch.

Gone harassing penguins,

Rich

To Winter Over (II)

Back to Antarctica

Back to South Pole (II)

The Adventure Continues

The winds of fate having for several years taken me where they will have changed direction today (10 minutes ago in fact). I am still bound for the grandeur and natural splendor of New Zealand, but I am leaving tomorrow instead of Wednesday. I am destined to spend a scant seven days in Christchurch resting up and shopping for a nine month winter-over cook position in McMurdo off the coast of Antarctica.

The position was just offered me, and I have always been a sucker for a challenge. No planes will be able to reach us for six months, and the long Antarctic night will contrast with this sunny three month long day at the Pole. We will, however, have luxuries not available to us at pole. I will have my own room with a real door instead of a curtain, live TV, a personal bathroom, and a telephone to the outside world in my room. I shall keep you all up to date.

The time has passed quickly here at the pole, and I long for the future as I remember the past. I have met some extraordinary people from Sir Edmund Hillary who showed me what greatness is, to beakers who showed me the universe, to cargoids who showed me how to drive a Cat. I have actually become somewhat accustomed to the weather despite my So Cal upbringing. After braving -60F wind chill to play golf, anywhere else will be downhill.

This all, of course, means that my travel plans will have to be postponed, and I will not be able to see you all for awhile. I shall be freed in October or November of '97 shaggy-maned, wild-eyed and mumbling about the beaches of Fiji. I plan to take a LONG trip with a significant time off after this Antarctic year and see the world (and my financial planner). Interest in cooking has also passed it's zenith, and I hope to expand my horizons once again in other areas.

On arrival in Mactown I shall let you know of my new e-mail and telephone. I plan to amend my wayward ways and make a weekly report to y'all of my gradual descent into insanity and pallor. It should be quite a ride. Remember, that after the incident last year all cooks have to attack each other with their own knives instead of borrowing claw hammers. I am cramming for my psych-evaluation next week; the voices in my head say I will be alright if during the test I pretend I am Eleanor Roosevelt. We shall see...

I wish y'all the best, and hope to hear from you soon.

Still looking for those damn penguins,

Rich

Summit of Castle Rock

Castle Rock and an emergency shelter (aka “the Tomato”)

Climbing Castle Rock on Ross Island