My life seems up in the air in every way imaginable. I received an email from a close friend hoping things would change from a less than average previous couple of years. I replied that maybe this is just how life is, slugging through a boring job, everyday exploitation by powerful, smarmy, and repulsive people and businesses, and frequent disappointments that arise like weeds in a spring garden. With less than a month’s time remaining for my stay in Antarctica, my thoughts are scattered with where I will land on my feet next.
Offers are being presented to me on where to spend some much wanted vacation time once off the ice. One of my best friends here wants me to travel to South America. Another group of people invited me to go to a small island off the coast of Thailand and rent a beach house for a couple of weeks. Yet the most intriguing possibility was an email from a long lost friend in the South Pacific Kingdom of Tonga.

For many years my mind has drifted to setting foot in this corner of the world that sculpted a large part of my thoughts and life. Some dreams do become reality and I am excited about spending time with my best friend from high school, one whose mother referred to me as her white son. From my time immersed in a very distinct and different culture, my mind expanded and developed concepts and characteristics that would help make me who I am today. On what I’ve experienced in life, I wonder how anything can ever surprise me, yet my journey continues to astonish me. Through much space and time, it looks as if a broken connection will come full circle and be reunited. After reading his email, I hurried down to the galley where a screening of selections from the Banff Mountain Film Festival flickered overhead.

This film festival promotes short movies exploring niche outdoor lifestyles and sports. One of my favorites featured a group of rock climbers who embarked upon a national park in the Czech Republic. The caveat was that the climbers couldn’t use chalk or any metal pitons or screws on the rock. To tie off they literally tied knots in the rope and crammed it into cracks in the rock until it hopefully became secure enough to continue scaling the sheer cliffs up hundreds of feet.

The other film named Psyche: Patagonia Winter was a story of two climbers trying to scale Patagonia’s jagged peak, Torre Egger, in the dead of winter. This Special Jury Award recipient was an oftentimes humorous and witty documentary that captured the most amazing scenery and landscapes. So much in fact, that Patagonia pushed to the forefront of places I must experience before I die. Type Torre Egger in Google and look at some of the pictures. It's spectacular. The climbers ultimately fail in their conquest. But sometimes it’s those failures that are precisely what inspire and motivate us to move on to bigger and better adventures. Life has a way of unfolding itself in puzzling ways. And the world presents gifts of beauty all around.

Outside beamed an incredible sun halo. The halo, with accompanying sundogs, are produced by ice particles being blown in the air by strong winds. They reflect light akin to a rainbow when hit at the right angle by the sun. Only rather than arching from one end of the horizon to another, a sun halo literally circles the sun. I have seen others here but this one in particular contained several circles. Some above, some circling the sun, and then a huge parhelic arch wrapping itself around the whole circumference of the sky. Looking away from the lights direct rays, it seemed as if someone in the heavens above gently sprinkled diamond dust from a clear sky. People that have been here for three seasons said they have never seen one this brilliant. But like all good things, it disappeared quickly and all that was left was a 20 MPH wind gust ripping through clothing layers reminding you that you’re in Antarctica.

The temperature saw it’s high point for the year, checking in at a balmy negative 2 degrees, but would soon crawl back up around the usual twenty below. We finished the entire soffit of the station and have now moved up to the roof. The view is spectacular, white snowfields for as far as the eye can see. A coworker told me we have about two weeks left of nice weather and then the temperatures will rapidly change and be back to negative fifty before we leave. And while my time here is beginning to come to a close, who knows what doors will open for me when I get out of here. I have some ideas rattling around in my mind and hopefully I can make them work out.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on January 10, 2010 from Missoula, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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We had more visits from the BBC for their Frozen Planet series. In fact, the famed BBC broadcaster and naturalist Sir David Attenborough himself stayed at the Pole for a couple of days to lend his voice and face to the harsh environment. The film crew took off in a Twin Otter airplane and circled overhead several times as the entire station population posed for a photograph in front of the final piece of the recently deconstructed geodesic dome. The outdated building became a causality of the new, elevated station that I came here to complete. The remaining section of the dome’s triangular iron flew an American flag high above, as a photographer captured the moment. Later that evening crews would remove the ironwork, leaving a massive cavity in the ground. The South Pole Dome was now just a heap of nuts, bolts, and scrap metal. And while the demolition of this iconic building occurred without incident , tragedy almost struck at the original South Pole Station.

An 18-man U.S. Navy crew built “Old Pole” in the mid 1950’s. But due to being buried at a rate of four feet of snow per year, the site was abandoned in the mid-seventies, as the completion of the geodesic dome became the new home for researchers and personnel. However, because the place was deserted before the U.S. government signed the Antarctic Treaty, which required the removal of all unnatural materials, Old Pole was simply left with dishes in the cupboards to be buried forever in the polar tundra. With years of accumulated snow drifts piling up the structural integrity decreased exponentially.

A crew deployed with ground resonance imaging equipment to detail precise locations of the building for some upcoming work. Due to being an “eye sore” out of the galley windows of the new station, authorities decided to relocate the very few tourists who make it to the South Pole each year. The area they chose was near Old Pole. So with hazardous areas marked and flagged, a heavy equipment operator began work to create a new camping spot for the visitors. After working for over an hour his bulldozer suddenly and unexpectedly broke through the ice and plummeted 40 feet before crashing through a network of old wooden framing.

With cracked glass and snow trapping the doorway closed, the driver got on his radio and called for help. Two other heavy equipment operators hurried out to the site to try and rescue their coworker. Arriving at the scene they assessed the situation and began performing a retrieving mission. But as soon as they started, the snows weight gave out again and another of the machines fell through the crumbling sinkhole. Although he didn’t fall as far as the first dozer, the situation became a little more desperate and dangerous. Through much work and calculations, crews safely rescued both operators, who came out with nothing more than scared psyches, bumps and bruises. I talked with the first operator that fell through and was trapped for over an hour, later that evening at a party. He showed me several pictures of the cracked windshield, caved in snow, and then aerial views of the wreckage once he was removed.

I’m not exactly sure what they are going to do with the area at this point or if they were able to tow the equipment out. They may just end up slowly being buried themselves and drifting along with the ice cap until they spill into the ocean thousands of years from now. Working outside at the South Pole is inherently dangerous. It’s a harsh continent and not for the weak hearted, or namby pamby in spirit. While I am one of the few on station that work outside each and every day I was reminded of how privileged we have things here at the new station as one of the early Antarctic explorers from the 1950’s gave a symposium in the galley. Charles Bentley spent several years as a scientist and slept outside, had to build shelters, prepare food, because the infrastructure hadn't been set up yet.

He was a real Antarctic explorer and researcher. While I am working on a building and have very limited freedom and mobility, they were surveying mountain ranges and scaling glaciers that no human had ever laid eye upon. As a result Mount Bentley and the Bentley Subglacial Trench were named after this young college kid who devoted his life to Antarctic science. His accounts were amazing and made me feel like a creature of comfort, Manhattan socialite. While he told stories of how the snow was deeper uphill in both directions, I sipped on a freshly brewed coffee and snacked on some crème brule before heading to the computer lab to check my email before the satellite passes. My how technology has changed in 50 years.

In fact, debuting last night was the 2010 South Pole International Film Festival (SPIFF).
All films are written, directed, and contained actors that currently live at the South Pole. Had I have known, I would have conjured an idea and checked out a camera from the IT department to shoot the video. Instead I had a small part in a silent comedy about a gas line that ate up a fuel operator and another part in the opening welcome scene to the entire festival. About a dozen movies were made, each less than ten minutes in length. There were a few technical difficulties but hopefully I can obtain a disk and watch them in the comfort of my own bedroom. So as my time here winds down I feel like I have been a part of something very special and unique and am just trying to soak it in, because all good things must come to an end. And that’s when the next adventure starts.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on January 23, 2010 from Missoula, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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So here I sit at McMurdo Base. I felt a lot mixed emotions today seeing all of my friends and coworkers boarding the airplane that would have dropped me off back in civilization. I hugged everyone and exchanged a few emails before I didn’t want to be in the cold anymore and turned around for warmth of the station. The other two guys who were originally going to work with me here, both boarded the plane to Christchurch as well. Each of them will winter over at different bases on the continent and were taking a week off before reporting to their respective locations. So here I sit alone once again.

Only McMurdo has about 6 times the station population that the South Pole does. The computer lab displays fewer computers for use and there is a 20 minute time limit. So although I now have 24 hour a day internet access it will still be a pain in the ass to use the computers. The temperature here is about 55 degrees warmer than what I have become accustomed to. I’ll be working inside too, from what I understand. If only I knew where to go. When the plane landed, I was dumped off and waited around for a shuttle bus to pick me up. The airstrip, just minutes from the base when I came here in November, no longer exists. The warm air melted all the snow, so instead of flags and runway, there is now a shimmering body of water. McMurdo is actually on an island in the middle of the Ross Sea. The shuttle bus driver quipped that the ride back to base would be 40 minutes.

That confused me, until I asked why. Minutes later I saw with my own two eyes. The same flat, white, sterile scene I have looked at day in and day out for three months vanquished and before me erupted 10,000 foot mountain peaks, bays of water, and volcanic rock forming hillsides. Once we got to McMurdo I noticed the complete lack of snow on the ground and even saw a guy walking around in shorts. Don’t think it’s warm; it’s still only twenty degrees as I type. But twenty feels down right pleasant after working in negative 55 wind-chill for the past week. I saw the first bird I’ve seen in three months glide in huge circles above me as I stared mesmerized. Soon I saw another and then another. I walked closer towards the water hoping perhaps to spot some penguins and seals. I saw neither so I wandered back to a main building.

I still didn’t know where my room was, where I was supposed to be working tomorrow, what time to be there, where my bags were or anything. I ate dinner in the galley looking around at all the new faces, but trying not to be too obvious that I was a newbie. I finally went to the general store and asked the clerk where I should go to find my room. She told me where housing was located and found an envelope with my name and key inside, dangling on one of several small hooks attatched to the door. They had been closed since the time I arrived. I huffed up a hill to the cargo area and grabbed my bags before heading to my room, complete with new roommate. Our beds are two feet apart. This should be interesting. I haven’t met him yet but from the looks of his bags, he’s from Arizona.

So as one door in my life closes, others open, and those will open more. I feel privileged and honored to have worked at the South Pole. I know most people at this base would like to even just take a photo next to the pole marker. I felt sad leaving today, even though I have been looking forward to the moment for some time. I said goodbye to friends I became quite close with. I'll miss their smiles and laughs, their sense of adventure, and our relationship. And while I will undoubtedly see some again, others I know, I just crossed paths with for a brief moment in each of our weird and wonderful stories.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on February 7, 2010 from Escalante, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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They make fun of people here wearing their extreme cold weather gear when it’s 20 degrees above zero. They don't like hearing McMurdoites say it's cold when it's usually 60 degrees colder at the Pole. They don’t like people bragging about being to Antarctica, when they are only on an island several miles off the coast of the continent at the bottom of the globe. They don’t like all the people and lines, etc. On the flip side, many of my new co-workers were very curious about my experiences at the Pole. First break at work on day one, resulted in a question and answer session. They were more interested in what I did than many people back home.

The Pole has a certain status here. Some who have been to Antarctica for over four years still can’t get there. I’m surprised I was even hired from the sounds of it. Others would like to go for one to three weeks, but not a whole season. The conditions are too extreme, temperatures too cold, and living conditions second class for those with a lack of ice time.

Polies have an ego, especially the construction workers who are outside for eight hours a day: they are the toughest workers on the planet. Perhaps it's true, but I guess if you’re not smart you at least better be tough. I was one of the five oldest guys on my crew. Most were young bad asses who could endure the intensity and even embrace it. I can picture them now in New Zealand, cruising around on motorcycles listening to hard rock music belted by an angry singer that sounds like Cookie Monster rudely awoken from a nap and then discovering all of his coookies eaten. Here, I am one of the three youngest guys on my crew and everyone is downright small-town nice. Just don't be an illegal alien breaking into their home. Then, they will shoot you in the face so you can't sue them.

I have found most to be quite pleasant and unpretentious. While I haven’t been bothered by lines at dinner or the bathroom at all, unlike my experience at the Pole, I was shocked when I went to a bar for a tape delayed broadcast of the Super Bowl, and had to squeeze my way through the sheer volumes of humanity. I was overwhelmed by how many people were in that one room, and am adjusting to different surroundings little by little.

My first shower was guilty pleasure. I am accustomed to taking two, two minute showers per week. And even then it was more a pain in the ass than it' was worth. Half the reason I made the effort was out of respect to others noses. I'd have to bundle up and walk outside in negative temperatures for twenty seconds just to immediately remove the excess layers for a drizzly nozzle squirting luke warm water on my body for a 120 seconds. Here, my room is right across the hallway from the bathroom. Easy for wearing shorts and flip flops. I felt down right gluttonous letting the hot water drain on me for as long as I did. The only items missing from my forray were a lawn chair, arm floaties, and six pack of beer. And when I go back to my nice, spacious room with a real ceiling and walls, I am all alone. The mystery man from Arizona disappeared without being seen. After day three his bags vanished, leaving me with the dorm to myself. All in all, things are good.

The scenery is spectacular and I see wildlife just about every day. On the ice shelf, several 600 pound Weddell seals bask in the sun. They are so far away though, they simply look like brown specks on an enormous white canvas. Wednesday morning I saw a whale surface from the deep blue Antarctic waters. Spray from his nostril blew towards the heavens before he disappeared again into the frozen sea. Seconds later the arch of his back crested slowly above the surface revealing a short dorsal fin. I couldn’t tell which kind it was, but minke and orcas are common in the area.

“There’s a whale” I exclaimed to a couple of coworkers.
“Yep, I guess you don’t see that every day at the Pole now, do you?” one replied.

Both glanced over with the enthusiasm of a New Yorker being told to look at street performers. Later I saw a dozen penguins below the water treatment plant across the road from where I am working. I sat down watching the entertaining way they walk. Each had rolls of fat drooping from their bellies as they waddled around the ice. A few were molting and feathers were strewn about the area. One had made a little nest out of dirt and was just lying inside it. I couldn’t tell if there was an egg, but it seems late in the season to be incubating. The adelies stood about two feet high and had striking and beautiful blue eyes in contrast to their black and white bodies. I climbed as close to them as they would permit me without walking the opposite direction. And as a gazed at their majesty, I could not help but wonder what they tasted like stewed or perhaps baked into a fine casserole.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on February 14, 2010 from Escalante, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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What better way to get an inside scoop, than to talk with some Kiwis. So I meandered two miles down the road to mingle with locals. New Zealand’s Scott Base is just on the other side of the 750 foot Observation Hill and once a week they have American Night at their bar. I walked in tepidly due to their hat policy. Still having customs of courtesy, the etiquette indicates that if you walk into the bar wearing a hat, you get the privilege of becoming everyone’s new best friend because you will have just bought them a round. I like my hats because it, uh, keeps my ears warm. That's it, keeps my ears warm.

I peeked inside and noticed several caps, beanies, and sweatshirts, so proceded with newfound confidence. Ordering a Speight’s I sat down and soon engaged in conversation with a friendly guy that looked apt to open a beer bottle with his teeth, spit the cap to the floor and hand you the bottle with a genuine smile. Three days worth of stubble littered his young but well weathered face. I had to focus as I listened to his thick accent.

“Come over to the map and I’ll show you where to go on the South Island.” he said.

“If I were you, I would start by heading north-west until you hit near Westport on the coast, and then make your way down towards Milford Sound. If you thought people in Christchurch were friendly, these people are four times nicer. You should really hit some small local bars there too. They serve great micro-draughts. It'll be quite an experience. People there remind me of this time I was in the States and stopped in some bar in West Virginia because it was so beat up. I only planned to see what it looked like inside for a couple of drinks but I ended up there two days straight hanging out with a bunch of toothless people .”

“Yeah that’s definitely the stereo-type, toothless hags.” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to be offensive, but it was true though. Many of them were missing teeth. Still, they were a great bunch.”

“I went to bar like that in Montana a couple of years ago. My friends Bridget and Rachel moved there to be ski bunnies for a season. I went to visit 'em and one day we drove to Glacier National Park and our way back, we stumbled upon this little hole in the wall bar with rusted, well worn trucks equipped with gun racks on a dirt road. It was day light, around 6:00 p.m., but this place was like a Wild West saloon. In one corner people are yelling and about to fight, and no one else is even paying attention. Some people were slumped over the bar sleeping, and then there was a rowdy game of pool going on with money scattered all over the table. I half expected to see people swinging around in circles on ceiling fans. I wouldn't be more scared in a bar in the worst part of Brooklyn. We stayed for our beer before I wussed out and wanted to leave. We were way too yuppie in our Gore-Tex ski jackets to hang out long.”

“I love those types of places, they’re my favorite. And that is the best part of tramping. I don’t like to plan too much. It’s more fun to just see where the journey is going to take you and what crazy little places and people you’ll discover unexpectedly. Sometimes I go on a trip and don’t see one thing I had originally planned on seeing and yet it was the most fascinating tramp I’ve been on.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. I do have a tentative plan for when I get to New Zealand but who knows where I’ll end up. I'd love to hit Queenstown, Milford Sound, and Abel Tasman. But other than that, I don’t know. I’ve never been there except the few days I was weathered in at Christchurch.”

“It just depends on what you want to do. If you want to avoid the crowds, there are many treks you can take, completely off the beaten path. I would check in with the D.O.C. though and let them know where you’re at and when you plan on returning. People die in those mountains every year. The weather can change extremely fast at high altitudes. But it’s some amazing county. Just make sure you have plenty of food and plan on boiling water. Giardia can be a problem.”

“Well the first thing I plan on doing when I get back to Christchurch is buying a tent, sleeping bag, and backpack. My thumb can get me from place to place I've heard.”

“No worries mate. Hitchhiking is really safe in New Zealand and if you tire of that, there are little mini buses you can catch from point to point.”

He was just as excited explaining the terrain as I was thinking about being there in a couple of weeks. When he finally finished and we were walking back to our seats, he suddenly remembered an area and we went back to the map where he proceeded showing me locations for an additional ten minutes. Then he joined some friends leaving the next day. I sat down to talk with a girl I had flown to Antarctica with, but hadn’t seen since.

Soon it was last call and the shuttle driver arrived to take us back to McMurdo. I looked out at all the huge Weddell seals dotting the landscape and wanted to return when the skies were clear and I could see the scenery better. And unlike the weenie, conservative American bureaucrat mentality of “we don’t want anyone to get hurt” (translation: we don’t want any lawsuits), the Kiwis even have their own snowboarding/ski hill complete with kickers and rope toe. Let freedom reign. Maybe next year I’ll bring my board down, but now I would just have to settle for watching it on TV.

The Armed Forces Network is broadcast here on station and right after my supervisor ejected a safety video, the image on the screen was Shaun White smiling from ear to ear after his fist Olympic run. I stuck around for the final round and dramatic conclusion with one of my co-workers from Pole who is wintering here. He lived in Colorado and used to get backstage passes each year at the X Games in Aspen. We both jumped out of our seats watching White pull his now famous Double McTwist 1260. The next night, my Mormon mommy complete with an Australian accent won gold in the woman’s halfpipe. Ahhhhhh If I could only be fifteen years younger. But most wishes will remain just that. Wishes. So while I won’t be meeting Torah Bright or seeing any auroras this year, the gods did bless me with a different unexpected fascination.

I haven’t seen nighttime in over 100 days. Yes I said it correctly, I haven't seen nighttime in over 100 days. Although I have seen the moon once or twice, dark skies and stars are distant recollections and mere memories in my head. But yesterday, when I left the bar, I saw the closest thing resembling a sunset in months. As the sun broke through the thick clouds that have covered the region for a week, a creamsicle-colored orange glow outlined the reappearing mountains across the ice shelf.

Silhouettes of each layer of ridgeline and peak, blended shades of pink and purple that looked like Georgia O’ Keefe pastels tinting the white Antarctic landscape. I walked closer to edge of town to escape the telephone poles, power lines, and ugly buildings obstructing my view. I stood soaking in the surreal colors and dramatic outlined shapes, not wanting to leave its dreamlike impression in my mind. But soon my teeth started to chatter and my muscles shook involuntarily from the cold, until finally I relented and turned my back to walk home. Before I closed my door I turned around for a final glance. The sight was one of the most beautiful to have ever seared me.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on February 20, 2010 from Escalante, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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Taking advantage of an afternoon of sunshine, I went hiking with two women who are staying in Antarctica through the winter. We scrambled out to a trailhead and ascended to a ridgeline overlooking the remnants of the moving sea water. Still seeing one small patch of moving water we hoped a whale would come up to smell a smell, sniff a sniff and take a breath. Hundreds of feet below, seals slept on the ice sheet until their appetites called them back to their hunting grounds. Crepuscular rays broke through the clouds as wind gusts blasted through our clothing layers. Then piercing the solitude, we were interupted by loud honking as a group of four lost looking penguins came into our view.

It seemed like they saw our hiking party and wanted to join forces. I wanted to smuggle one home for baby niece Biggie, to play with. We stopped to see what they would do as they waddled directly for us. Soon they stopped too. At first I thought maybe we frightened them, but then noticed a pressure ridge blocking their path. They continued calling out into the crisp air but made no effort to cross the abrasion or find a way around it. They simply stood there not knowing what to do.

We resumed our ascent until a few paces later I spotted a group of about a dozen other penguins nestled patiently on our trail about fifty feet ahead. We couldn’t believe they had climbed up so high with their tiny little legs. They sat motionless, except for a few molting feathers getting blown by a sudden wind burst. The poor ones below kept crying out to the larger group, to no response. We snapped a couple of pictures and continued around them. The rule is you are not allowed to get close enough to wildlife that it moves. There goes my kidnapping plans. Sorry Biggie, I'll buy you some Cuban cigars instead. When we reached a bend where the mountain obscures the view, we looked back and saw the little pocket of four in the same spot as when we had first seen them.

As we continued, we linked up with the road that goes to Scott Base. One of the women departed back to McMurdo, while the other and I took a right turn and trekked the two miles to New Zealand’s base. We walked into the bar to the astonishment of others because it was already time for the final shuttle van to arrive. We passed on the ride to McMurdo and decided to walk back when we wanted. With all the Americans gone, the only patrons remaining were six winter-overs at that base, and the two of us. One drink led to another as the minutes drifted by. The differences in customs between various countries are always quite interesting to me. Closing time in the American bar leads to the bartender yelling last call and then promptly and sometimes forcefully ushering everyone out the door as soon as possible.

Here though, the bartender simply disappeared one moment without saying a word. I thought she had left to use the bathroom or something, only she never came back. At this point, four of us conversed in the dull grey light slumping through the windows. One of the Kiwis grabbed the same beer can to take a sip before realizing it was empty about a half dozen times. Each time he did it, I smiled watching him want that next sip so bad and then looking disappointed it wasn't there. If I would have known him better I would have burst out laughing. Finally, to my surprise, he simply walked behind the bar and asked if anyone else wanted a drink and then proceeded to ring up the booze himself.

What a great concept, I thought; a self-serve bar. One guy hanging out with us was the same I had met last week who showed me the map of the South Island. The other had his head shaved bald, sported a fu-manchu moustache, and wore a Harley Davidson shirt. His appearance was in stark contrast to his voice, vocabulary, and diction which sounded like an Oxford University professor. I think I may raise my children in a country that speaks the Queen’s English, so they’ll sound intelligent no matter what. Strangers always think I smoke a lot of dope and eat Chipwiches and Cheetos, just because I talk a little slow.

We stayed until after 2:00 in the morning before deciding to leave. Outside, the air was silent and frigid, our footsteps creating the only sound. We walked to the edge of land, where the volcanic dirt meets the sea ice, closer to a group of seals. Suddenly, a deep low groaning accompanied by heavy breathing pierced the quiet calm. We approached a pressure ridge that had a few icy formations resembling giant mushrooms or hoodoos in Goblin Valley. The noises grew louder and more intense and soon I began thinking a seal laid near our feet, hidden by one of the structures. I realized it was just an echo reflecting off the ice as additional sounds in the distance erupted from the tens of other seals littered throughout the area.

The clamor conjured up images that I was not in fact in Antarctica, but in some tropical jungle, for some sounds resembled giant insects, monkeys or birds. I felt like I was in such a wild and remote area of the Earth and it was such a privilege to be here. The seal closest to us, arched his back several times while grunting, before flipping over to reveal his spotted underside. His flipper rubbed his belly and I could relate to needing a good scratch.

Soaking in the moment for a moment we decided to start our walk back to McMurdo having already hiked nearly 5 miles that evening. The air had shifted and the wind began to blow hard as small snowflakes peppered the dirt road. Giant wind turbines spun swiftly on top of an adjacent peak, producing half of the stations energy supply. I zipped my coat up and put my hood up for the walk home. I had a rough morning trying to get out of bed and to the power plant for work on time but made it, although, I did miss breakfast and dinner for the next two days to catch up on sleep. Now, I enter the final week of my season here. I only have three more work days and Friday I’ll be in New Zealand for my next adventures. While I will bypass the Cheetos, I may be seeking that elusive back scratch.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on February 28, 2010 from Escalante, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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I grabbed my luggage off the carousel and placed it on a free cart before jumping on and riding it like a skateboard once I got outside. The warm breeze and humid air felt euphoric against my sleeveless arms. I checked in all of my cold weather gear at the Antarctic Clothing Distribution Center and joined others to hop on the shuttle into the city. In town, we noticed a group of four women dressed as pirate maidens strutting to some sort of costume or dance party. A few blocks later another group of maidens. Then a different quad with pink hair in fairy costumes. We had been in a place where the male to female ratio had been 4 to 1. I forgot the general populous was 50/50. Then I saw a most peculiar creature, otherwise known as a baby. Haven't seen a live one of those in a while. It's like viewing photos of a penguin and then when you see one in real life you think, 'Ohhh wow look at that mythical being, they are real.' And then I saw a small child and then an elderly man. Then some more girls with blue and green wigs. It was land of the freaks. It just showed me how much staying in one environment for a period of time brain washes you to a certain extent.

Sitting in the hotel check-in line, four young women in Catholic school girl outfits approached us to ask a question. We just looked at each other and started laughing. The first words a civilian in the real world uttered to us were, “Do you have any ribbed condoms?” Apparently it was for some scavenger hunt or a bachelorette party, I don’t remember. They continued asking other people nearby as I moved forward in the queue and got my room number at the looks-like-Apple-designed-it, Hotel So. The trendy rooms weren’t liked by all the roughnecks from the ice but I enjoyed it. Later that night I met up with a couple of the guys I knew from the Pole.

The dynamic between the two was like hanging out with Bert and Ernie. One was a deliberate, conservative in demeanor, Ivy League graduate from New England. The other was a Texan who worked on oil rigs and has a girlfriend that wants him to get a job in Kuwait so he can't do anything immoral or they'll chop off his offending member or hand. All night long, without his girlfriend watching, The Texan would goad and prod the Ivy Leaguer into drinking faster than just one beer an hour, drinking more than just two or three beers a night, and staying out later than midnight. I laughed the entire evening, they were like movie characters. Our journey started with me feeling really old from looking at all the young looking people in line. The girl in front of us started a conversation by noticing my pale arms and gleefully exclaiming “You’re just as white as I am,” before bursting out in laughter.

We started talking a little bit, but I had to ask how old she was. She started giggling again and said “I’m 27. Ha ha ha ha yeah I’m 27.” She showed me her ID which looked like a gym membership. Suddenly something dawned on me as I scanned the crowd. I looked at her and said, “Yeah I’m 27 too, just like you are, only the opposite direction.” Translation: I was just as close to age 27 as she. The legal drinking age in New Zealand, like the majority of the world, is 18. Her fake ID made me want to get my almost 37 year old ass out of there in a hurry, as I could picture my sister calling me a sicko with a look of disgust on her face. We ended up not going inside and finding a more mixed crowd but I had other problems. Usually foreign people in New York love talking with me because I speak English so slow they can actually understand someone, but here I just talk, umm, I’ll say exotic. I ordered my drink three times before the bartender could comprehend my words. I'm having trouble with their accents once in a while too.

I walked into a bathroom and was about to enter a private stall, when I heard an angelic voice calling to me. I looked up and saw a beautiful blond woman dressed up in a French Maid costume. Yes, another one from the costume party thing, I love this country. I smiled big, excited that she struck up a conversation with me, but had to excuse myself because I couldn’t understand what she said. Looking her in the eye, I focused with all the concentration I could muster, embarrassed to make her reiterate her words a third time.

“Um excuse me sir, you’re in the woman’s bathroom. “ she repeated. My giddy smile turned to a look of complete terror as I looked around. Through the propped open door I could see men entering and exiting a room just on the other side of the hallway. Where were they before and why hadn’t I seen any signs? AHHHHH. I meekly apologized, tucked my tail between my legs and scurried out. In hindsight I should have just started a new conversation like nothing was wrong, but I always think of things too late. Several bars in New York have unisex wash stations with stalls in separate individual small rooms. It never occurred to me that it was strange for a woman to be striking up a conversation with me in a restroom. I trotted back upstairs laughing about the situation. There, Ernie was pushing Bert to go to a nudie club. With my vote we stayed away and simply ended up at another nearby bar before calling it a night.The next day I went to a professional rugby game and then met up with those two for another interesting time. They both left Sunday morning though, while I slept in and ate a nice brunch around 1:30 in the afternoon.

I walked around in the foothills of Christchurch, through the botanical gardens, and got a relaxing Thai massage. Looking for lunch one day, I wanted something authentic and searched for an ethnic restaurant with native people eating inside. I found my spot, Sala Thai, and promptly asked for a table. They gave me a table alright, one directly in a corner. Either seat I choose had a grand view of the wall in front of me. I had to turn my body sideways between bites to face out into the room to observe the subdued scene. There were even empty tables. I guess they didn't like my pale skin either. I finished my meal and went looking for backpacking gear. In one of the stores I bumped into a young woman I knew from the Pole. She had been trekking for the past four days in an area called Arthur’s Pass and was on her way to the South Pacific Island, Vanuatu. We made dinner plans and met up with another couple that evening before saying goodbye again.

The next day I took a nine hour bus ride through the Canterbury Plains, through the Southern Alps and down to Queenstown. The town would be well described as the offspring of opulent and chic Park City and adventure driven and adrenaline riddled Moab. As long as we are pretending, the setting reminds me of what that mythical town would look like on the edge of a massive lake at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon. As for now, the tourists in town are mostly from Australia, The U.K., France and Germany from the sounds of things. Aside from nationality, they also seem to fall into two categories. The first, foreign baby boomers with sweaters draped over their backs and shoulders like a superman cape or like they are going to a tennis match. All the fine dinning establishments have several groups of this type sipping overpriced wine and engaged in clever conversation.

The other segment of typical tourist here is young twenty-somethings wearing swim trunks, flip flops and t-shirts looking like they are heading to the beach. This group stays at hostels and buys their peanut butter and jelly at the grocery store so they can have more money for cheap booze. While I don't fit in with either contingent, it's a simple guess on which side of the fence I landed. Case in point, last night my roommates were four spicy Swedish meatballs. Haven’t seen tonight’s cast that came here looking for extreme sports, but I'm sure I'll meet them around four in the morning. I'm hoping for curvy hips, sweet dispositions, and need help in speaking English. Just so I can point them to the nearest info booth to buy a hang gliding excursion.

Some of the brochures I've seen for the action sports, include bungy jumping off a bridge the length of 1 1/2 football fields, jetboating through narrow canyons at high speeds, and skydiving. I've heard of people driving Formula One race cars. But the best activity I've seen was paying $400 dollars to drive a huge military tank. And for an extra 400 you can even crush and roll over a car. All prices are NZD, for the redneck in all of us.

As for me, I think I’m going to be holed up here for a couple of days because the weather is turning sour. I’ll try to wait it out so I can do the Rees-Dart Trek. It’s about 50 miles long and will take 4 or 5 days. I don't want to do it in the rain, mud, swollen rivers and obstructed mountain views. I may do the bungy jump in the meanwhile, but the $230 price tag is creating more hesitation than the fear of staring off the edge and getting the nerve to leap. I might end up just moving out of town. We’ll see if I get too antsy waiting for sunshine while messy roommates leave shaved facial hair in the bathroom sink and fart repeatedly at night.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on March 10, 2010 from Queenstown, New Zealand
from the travel blog: South Pole
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