A-Frame

Current Conditions
Temperature: -34F
Wind Chill: -34F

I'm told the A-frame originally belonged to the U.S. and was used as the Chalet, which is the administrative building for the NSF and Raytheon. If it was, it must have been quite some time ago, because there isn't much room in the A-frame for working personnel. I'm told the U.S. program decided to get rid of it and the Kiwis said they'd put it to use. So they dragged it an hour out onto the ice shelf beyond the Castle Rock trail and ski hill and turned it into a shelter for their survival school instructors. This is its purpose in the summer. In the winter, it's a great place to go camping.

The Kiwis offer the A-frame to the Americans on the first Saturday night of every month. But Katie has Tuesdays off, not Sundays, so she managed to get it for a Monday night instead. Brody, Talie and I all got permission to use comp time on Tuesday morning so we could go along. So, on Monday evening after dinner, the four of us loaded up a Pisten Bully with warm clothes, skis, cameras, radios and food. This picture was taken by Antz on a previous trip in the Kiwi's Hagglund:

The A-frame is a small, triangular cabin with wood plank walls and a fuel stove heater. The middle section of each sloped wall is alcoved to create a little more space. Down the south wall are three twin mattresses, the middle one in the alcove. Down the north wall is a cooking area and counter, a table and chairs in the alcove, and beyond that, a couch. At the far wall is the stove heater, between the couch and a twin bed. In the loft there is just room for three more twin mattresses. The bathroom is a snow-lined (inside and out) outhouse behind the building, but you can stay inside and pee into a pee bucket with a funnel and take it out later. Light comes from the fire and a lantern, water from a container with a spigot. In short, the A-frame is wonderfully rustic.

We spent the evening drinking Scotch and Oregon Chai, just chatting and enjoying the cozy charm. It was fantastic to get away from town and into this little cabin that bears no resemblance to the industrial look of most other buildings here. I almost forgot I was in Antarctica; I could easily feel like we were in a little ski lodge in the mountains somewhere:

The fire was the best part. It was mesmerizing. I know, fire is always mesmerizing, but I haven't gazed into a campfire since my Alaskan canoe trip in September with Lynette. And before that, I think it was the time Jason and I learned that basalt is a poor choice when building a fire ring. Apparently, tiny air pockets in basalt have a tendency to explode when heated, hurling sharp flakes of hot volcanic rock towards you, your dog, your tent, your truck, etc. Jason's fleece pants were actually speckled with flakes that had melted the polyethylene and adhered. But I digress...

As we gazed into the fire, the four of us held wonderful conversation in the peaceful ambience, until the hour grew late and we couldn't hold our eyes open anymore. We eventually crashed out in long johns under fleece and wool blankets, still in the warm glow of the stove heater.

The hour of morning came and we rose, but the light of morning was still many hours away (many weeks, in truth), so we warmed water for coffee and tea and sat around the fire wrapped in blankets, still in long johns. Despite the presence of cards and board games, we continued to chatter contentedly just like the night before. We nibbled on snacks and drank warm drinks until noon, when the northern skyline showed signs of pre-dawn.

Bundling up and strapping on cross country skis, we ventured out into a completely still silence. The view was stunning. The colors were soft and the shapes obscured by thin cloud, but the scene may have been the most Antarctic yet. Mt. Erebus was a fuzzy outline through wispy clouds, silhouetted against the brightened northern sky, a pink plume flowing steadily east from its tip. To our right, the flat sea ice stretching out to infinity, its imperfections only vaguely visible in the low light. To our left, the glaciers of Hut Point Penninsula rising smoothly up to meet the pastel pre-dawn. Straight ahead, a line of green flags shrinking into the shadows of Windless Bight. Behind us, the pale pink shape of Mt. Discovery in the distance, just discernable from the deep blue-grey around it.

We followed the flagline beyond the Kiwi's Snow Mound City, where old quinzhees have sunk to low mounds, like insignificant pimples on the smooth ice face of the Ross Ice Shelf. The sense of remote was palpable as we took pause to soak it in:

A perfect day.