the last few days

This is the area I stayed last night, Punakeiki, the Pancake rocks, on the west coast.

A kea, the worlds only species of alpine parrot. Yep, that's a glacier in the background. This one was a cheeky bastard, every time I turned my back he had a go at my rucksack.

Me and the kea on top of Avalanche Peak, near Arthur's Pass.

Hoki

Can't type for long, only 5 minutes left on the pay-by-theminute maching I'm on. Still not entirely unsed to paying for things; on the Ice everything wsa free except the beer, and even that was cheap, at lesat relative to NZ where a pint is anywhere from $4.50-7.50 a pint.

Made it to Hokatika on the west coast, having fun in the sun, headed north now to Able Tasman national park for some sea kayaking, then maybe on to Picton and Wellington and north. Can't say much more, although there is much more to say.

Ice People

We are easily identified, the pasty white Americans who smell flowers and roll in the grass and perhaps smell faintly still of diesl fuel. Over a thousand of us transit through Christchurch every feburary over a 3 week period, and we almost overwhelm the town. Walking through the square or between popular resturants or bars, every other minute I see another group of Ice people. It is kinda nice, in an inbred, sociopathic way: as we attempt to transition from the ordered and modulated life of the station to the wider world and re-enter polite society, we can be here without having to actually talk to normal people, since Ice people are always at hand. But after a few days the itch to move along comes on; I've only been here 36 hours and I feel the gravity of the open road calling. But for now I can enjoy the social protection afforded by friends and cohorts known for so long in close quarters. But now I can enjoy them at a distance and at my leisure, a far more pleasant prospect than the enforced confinment of only 2 days ago.

Now if you will excuse me, I have an urgent need to sit in a meadow of flowers at the botanical garden.

633

I have retired from the field of custodial engineering. This wet mop operator, push broom technician, janitorial artist's season is over, with the total of 633 toilets cleaned. I only wish I had a handy figure for the number of square miles vacumed and mopped. Actually that isn't the only thing I wish for; I wish for cold beer and hot women and temperatures above the freezing point of all life on earth. Lucky for me all these things exsist in a much higher concentration only a few (about 31 and counting) hours from now. I have passed room inspection, collected my travel funds, and in a few minuntes bag drag and weigh in for the flight tommorow. It is good to be leaving.

Winter-over personell are all here, waiting for us to leave. It is a slightly awkward situation, as we are toasty to the point of near madness and they are fresh from their sojurns in warm climates. We are training them in the ways we have done our jobs all year and they are dutifully trying to play a long, knowing that when the last C-17 northbound waggles its' wings in farewell, they will find their own ways of getting the job done and getting by for the next 6-8 months without support. We think we are toasty, a summer in McMurdo ain't nothin' compared to a winter, especially for those hardy (raving mad) souls wintering at Pole. The last summer flight left there yesterday afternoon, barely escaping the -50 degree flight limit at -47 degrees C.

So the winter over people. They are obstensibly like us, but more so, damaged beyond repair by too many summer seasons on the ice, they then choose to winter. But arriving in Feb, near the time I am leaving, I feel no desire to get to know them, can't share banter about upcoming off ice travel plans, and really want nothing more from them than not taking my table at lunch or otherwise screwing with my routine. Thus one of the symptoms of toastiness previously mentioned: a fanatical abhorance of change in any form to the fragile little world we create for ourselves here.

New Zealand here I come!

Empty harbor, empty station

Another flight left today, with 137 souls on board. The supply vessel left saturday night and the ice breaker sunday. More people will leave every two days until, well, until the only people left on station are 134 deranged, or soon to be deranged winter-over personel.

When the supply vessel offload ended around 5:15pm saturday evening, a cheer went up on station, as it meant that the bar could open again for the first time in a week. The store could also resume sales of alchohol, as we were, in theory anyway a dry town that week. By the time the supply vessel American Tern cast off and the Polar Sea tied up on saturday night, it was nearly midnight (and cold, about 18 below zero), so rather than hike all the way into town the Coasties decided to take their shore leave then and there, right on the ice pier. So naturally we joined them and drank their beer, a bitter from Australia and a nice break from the same two brands of Kiwi beer we commonly have on station.

Anyway, with people leaving at an incredible pace, it really feels like the end is here. Only one week left for me, as I am on one of the last flights out, which I like for the fact that I'll get to see the station get small again and enjoy a final Antarctic sunset, which will break the horizon for the first time the night before I leave.






The Polar Sea and the fuel tanker Paul Buck approaching the ice pier.

Minke whales in the waters of McMurdo Sound. We have lots of them out in the bay right now, I can sometimes see them breach from the building I clean.

Locust

They arrived as a swarm, devouring everything in sight and disrupting the tranquil harmony that was life on the Harsh Continent. They are NAVCHAPS. Navy cargo handling personel that arrived a few days ago to help with supply vessel off load. But since they arrived several days prior to vessel, they have had little to do but clog up the entire station with their idleness and ignorance.

Now, it would be differant mind you if this was October or even November, when so many of us were new and willing to accomodate each others weirdness. But then we settled into our routine of "normalacy" and life went swimmingly. Now these FNG's come in and gum up the works.

Do I sound annoyed? I suppose so, like some crusty old timer who is grumpy that the newbies took his lunch table. But, well, they did damn it! There is a delicatly constructed social order on station, and the day they arrived it was throw into upheaval. Us townies were all shaken and walking around with shocked expressions, mumbling to one another and ourselves trying to find the old order in all the chaos. It isn't just the total number of people on station right now, though that is considerable, with all the NAVCHAPS, Coasties, Air National Guard, Tanker crewman, transient Polies on R&R, arriving winter over personel, and the regulars. It is more the fact that this sudden influx is of people unfamiliar with the routine. So it is nigh on impossible to get computer time, they swarm the lounges and watch tv all day, and they take over the galley. But it is ok, vessel comes in a few hours and they'll be put to work proper, and then they'll be gone. A few deep breaths... Alright, I'm ok now.

In answer to the question, no the folks leaning over the rail in the earlier picture aren't sea sick, they are watching for whales and penguins. After a big blow the other night, nearly all the brash ice cleared out and there is open water off of Hut Point. I went to a BBQ last night and we could see whales spouting in the sound.