Yes, it is a Lovely Morning. Now Why Don’t You Just Go to Hell.
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Outside magazine, February 1998
Yes, it is a Lovely Morning. Now Why Don’t You Just Go to Hell.
Drop 28 virtual strangers at the South Pole. Blend in eight months of mind-numbing darkness. Fold into extremely close quarters. Add a pinch of dysfunction. Stir.
SPEND TIME WITH PEOPLE WHO’VE SPENT TIME AT THE SOUTH POLE
One might reasonably calculate the season at the South Pole simply by watching what happens when someone eats, say, a peach. If the peach is consumed without incident, then it’s likely to be November, December, or January, one of three summer months when warmer air and 24-hour sunlight allow National Guard planes to fly in several times weekly from New Zealand. Yet if that
During the safer summer months, as many as 185 people — scientists and support staff sponsored by the U.S. government — live at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole station. But when the light dims and winter descends, the masses depart, leaving behind a skeleton staff of only 28, what’s known as the “winter-over” crew. From then on, the crew lives alone in four
If being thrown in with a group of relative strangers and cast to the exquisitely terrible edge of nothingness is humankind’s deepest escape fantasy (see: Moby Dick, Star Trek, Joseph Conrad, Gilligan’s Island), then the South Pole is probably its closest earthly embodiment. Not surprisingly, NASA, with an eye toward colonizing space, has followed life at the South Pole
Wintering at the South Pole, those who’ve done it will tell you, isn’t just about surviving physically. It’s about opening one’s mind to the unbroken darkness and minus-100-degree cold, to the fact that you’ve got 800 miles of empty ice on all sides and that, from February to October, there’s no way out. It’s about internalizing the blankness, the quiet. It’s about letting the
Take, for example, one recent night in that most dreary of Antarctic months, August, when researchers discovered that the South Pole’s hydroponic greenhouse, which thus far had produced no more than a few meager heads of lettuce each week, had miraculously mustered two ripe tomatoes. These were not prize tomatoes, not meaty softball-sized beauties, but rather sorry, stunted
The first guy immediately popped the tomato into his mouth and reflexively began to chew, a tide of horror seeming to wash over him at the precise instant he swallowed, understanding perhaps that like a brazen hedonist he’d squandered the moment, that his tomato, four months in the making, was already gone. The second fellow, who had clearly given the matter more thought,
“Sometimes,” one of the bystanders that day says now, “you can tell a lot about a person by what he does with a tomato.”
THERE ARE TWO POTENTIALLY LIFE-SAVING THINGS A PERSON SHOULD know before deploying to the South Pole for a winter: how to fight fire and how to get along with others. This gets explained to me by a fellow named Gumby, a native of Minnesota who over the past nine years has logged 76 months of Ice Time, as Antarctic experience is called, and is shortly
“First of all, you can’t exactly dial 9-1-1 down there,” says Gumby. “And secondly, people tend to wig out on one another when it’s dark that long.”
It’s a Saturday in early September. We’re eating pork chops for lunch as sunlight slices through the dining hall windows at Camp La Foret, a facility set deep in the pines northwest of Colorado Springs. Twenty-two members of the 1998 South Pole crew have convened here for a weekend of group hugs and various team-building exercises before shipping off in October for the Pole.
The promise of this kind of claustrophobic intimacy — and the interpersonal meltdowns it can cause — is what inspired the La Foret weekend. The next 36 hours will offer a chance for this year’s crop of deployees to dip their toes in the waters of emotional togetherness. It’s also a last chance to back out. While the wintering-over Pole employees undergo a psychological
screening prior to departure, purportedly to weed out anyone not fit, veterans will tell you that almost everyone passes, so the decision to go or not, to detach yourself from the rest of the world and throw your lot in with a bunch of possibly crazy strangers, is yours alone.
While roughly a third of the South Pole crew is made up of scientists — “Beakers,” in Antarctic parlance — the rest consists of tradespeople sent to keep the Beakers alive. Together, they form a sort of vocational Noah’s Ark — one doctor, one cook, one electrician, and so forth.
Even with the Beakers mixed in, the South Pole crew looks like a cross section of white America — folks you might find in line at the DMV in Traverse City, for example. Of the five women and 17 men who’ve made it to camp (six crew members were unable to come), nine have wintered at the Pole before. There are three married couples, five scientists from foreign countries,
As Leo sees it, the more hugging everybody does this weekend the better. Already he’s led us through a bevy of get-to-know-ya games, things like tag and human knots and “favorite worst smell.” For this, the group sorted itself into the dueling body-odor people and the garbage-dump people, with several splinter factions, including “outhouse” and “dirty diapers” and, somewhat
“What did we learn up on that log just then?” Leo asks. “Did we notice anything about the group?”
Each time so far, the circle has fallen silent. Leo smiles expectantly and waits. Usually it’s one of his two co-facilitators, Franco, the only guy here with a crystal around his neck, or Pat, a tanned and muscular woman, who then chimes in.
“I thought we did very well up there on the log,” Pat says.
“I’m proud of the way everyone cooperated,” Franco agrees.
A wind stirs the trees. More silence.
“Yes, cooperation will be important at the South Pole,” Leo says finally. “But it’s communication, people, that will get you through.”
Silence again. It seems tacitly understood that Leo wouldn’t last five minutes at the South Pole, a place where the psychology is hard-edged and of high consequence, where what seems at first like an amusing little idiosyncrasy can quickly become a frost-riven and divisive horror. The Pole, our group already seems to know, just isn’t a touchy-feely kind of place.
ALTHOUGH THE U.S. NAVY HAS BEEN PHASING OUT ITS ANTARCTIC
Or you embrace a kind of grim and swelling black comedy. Shortly after the last summer-season plane takes off in February, leaving the winter-over crew alone for the first time, everybody cracks open a beer and sits down for a ceremonial video presentation of The Thing, a 1982 movie that involves a crash-landed space alien who body-snatches the people living at an Antarctic
Isolation, after all, does strange things to people. Due to a lack of social and physical outlets, day-to-day life with one’s fellow castaways can be like tiptoeing through a sociopathic minefield: You never know who might snap, and for what reasons. In a well-publicized case in October 1996, a cook at Antarctica’s McMurdo station inexplicably turned on several of his
In Moby Dick, Melville describes the color white as “the intensifying agent in things the most appalling to mankind.” Antarctic history would seem to prove him right. There are rumors at the Pole, most of them dating back to the 1970s when it was primarily a Naval operation, that crew members who posed a threat to the rest of the group were put in a wire cage for the winter.
All of this makes it difficult to look around Leo’s Circle of Comfort without wondering who might be an eventual candidate for the cage. At lunch, however, several experienced Antarcticans explain that it’s difficult to know who to fear down there. “It’s not always obvious who’s going to make it and who won’t,” says Drooling Drew, a kindly, longhaired native of Maine and the
“It’s the little things that get to you,” says another guy at the table, a young technician with a goatee named Creative Craig. “Like your room’s close to the bathroom. I heard about some guy who couldn’t stand listening to the tap-tap-tap of toothbrushes against the sink over and over and over again. I hear one day he just went ballistic….”
After lunch, as Leo marches us into the woods to do trust falls, pattering on about how we have a “full-value contract” between us, I start to catch bits of sideline dialogue that suggest that the exploration going on between future Polemates is, perhaps aptly, more practical than emotional. “You’re not a country music fella, ah y’mate?” Rabid Rodney, the Aussie, is asking
I can hear him now as we tromp through La Foret’s forest, quietly polling people about the particulars of their appetites, identifying allergies, separating the vegetarians from the carnivores, working to discern who, in the deepest, loneliest part of winter, will crave what. In the next week, Dave will help put together the order for an entire year’s worth of food to be
“I like all meats,” Larry is telling Dave as a breeze lifts the tree branches around us. “I like squirrel meat. I like horse meat. My friends in the service ate a puppy once….” The sun kaleidoscopes through the woods and the group stays in step behind Leo’s cheery gait, every one of us studying the ground. Dave nods his head gently and then, with a diplomat’s grace, moves on
SUSTAINING HUMAN LIFE AT THE SOUTH POLE COMES AT A HIGH COST. With no native organic matter there, not even microbes, the Pole is nothingness built upon nothingness, a big, vacuumy, million-year pileup of ice and drifting snow. It’s as dry as the Sahara and almost as cold as Mars. Yet for the last 40 years, the U.S. government has had a presence at
But as scientists have immersed themselves in the great mysteries of life and physics, their shelter has slowly fallen apart around them. A senior science foundation official has called the station a “firetrap,” while a 1996 study concluded that half the station’s systems — namely the water pipes and generator-operated power plant — have outlived their intended
All of this is a way of moving us one step closer to the cosmos. If the new station works as planned, its proponents claim, it can help prepare us for a future out in space, where clusters of people will eventually be living and working, much as they do now at the Pole. “You won’t take just astronauts and Ph.D.s to the moon to build a spaceport,” says Jeff Johnson, an Eastern
To make their lives together bearable, Johnson says, these floating pools of humanity should remember the principal lesson of life at the Pole: Conflict is best faced openly and resolutely. “It’s the crews that are able to go face to face with issues that are able to resolve them. The more socially engaged they are, the better,” he says. Johnson would get along well with
Robert Hogan, an industrial psychologist at the University of Tulsa who studied Antarctic crews in the early eighties, firmly disagrees. “All this B.S. about teamwork!” he says. “You have to realize the people best suited for the South Pole make crappy team players. The Pole’s not an exciting environment. You’re basically staring at a cinder-block wall for six months. It’s a
OUR FACILITATOR PAT IS TRYING TO PUT A GOOD FACE ON OUR
“Yes there is,” says Leo. “A quiet strength.”
“I find it worrisome,” Pat continues in a blunter tone. “There’s something odd about how quiet it is.”
Facilitator Franco is nodding his head vigorously.
The group is, of course, quiet.
“How are you going to communicate with each other if you’re all so quiet?” asks Pat.
More silence. Pat will later confess that she’s accustomed to team-building with groups of executives and high-schoolers — people whose trust-falling is fraught with office politics and teenage angst, the stuff of high drama.
Suddenly, though, Dangerous Dave, a 33-year-old telescope technician from Chicago, steps forward. “I don’t get what you want from us,” he says to the facilitators. “What kind of stuff do you think we’re going to say to each other here? Do you think I’m gonna tell somebody I don’t like the way he looks and then go live with him at the South Pole for a year? You gotta be
Now it’s the facilitators’ turn to be silent. It’s moving into late afternoon. The woods are overrun with squirrels. The rest of us are studying the ground again. If Dangerous Dave is looking for backup, he’s not going to get it. Nor, however, is anyone disagreeing.
Pat draws herself up. “I think that was very brave of David to say,” she says, looking around the circle again.
“Yes, brave,” says Franco. “Very brave.”
They don’t bother to ask if anyone else has something to add. Dangerous Dave looks deflated. Leo scores a last victory for the touchy-feelies: “Let’s do one more activity today,” he says. “We call this the cinnamon-roll hug.” Soon we have joined hands in a line, falling in behind Dangerous Dave. Leo directs him to spin slowly in a circle, and so, looking disgruntled but too
AN ANTARCTIC VOCABULARY PRIMER: IF YOU ARE NEW TO THE ICE,
Most of us can hardly conceive of this. We are, on a symbolic level, Fingees, able to understand isolation only from the outside. In our prelapsarian innocence, we might well spend our last days, like the Fingees at La Foret, planning the parties we’ll be throwing in our new, tight quarters. Steffen, a 26-year-old German researcher, already has taken inventory of birthdays and
Asked if they feel the year ahead might chasten or otherwise change them, the Pole first-timers are dismissive. “Naaah,” Rabid Rodney says nonchalantly. Steffen giggles. But Daring Dave is more thoughtful. “I’m sure it will,” he says. “I’m a little afraid, like maybe I’ll be messed up after this, but I don’t think so. I think we’ll all be fine. We’ll just be good and toasty by
It’s hard to know, of course, how this enforced isolation will affect anyone. For those who’ve never experienced it, who know it only from a distance, it can seem so titillating, a potential party, or perhaps, most desirably, an escape — a big blind date with yourself and a bunch of new friends. But spend time with the people who’ve actually spent time at the Pole and
The hungers and deprivations of this long winter make the return north almost overwhelmingly beautiful, as one’s senses are inundated. Many South Pole veterans claim to have a permanently heightened sense of smell. Creative Craig has described to me in prolonged, sensual detail the first thing he rushed for once the plane deposited him in Christchurch, New Zealand: a cold tall
Sitting at a bar with the other toasties on one of the last nights of camp, Paul, who tends the station’s power plant, grows momentarily wistful. “Last time I came off the ice,” he says, “I got to Christchurch and immediately went to sleep. The next morning I walked over to the botanical gardens. I found a bench and just sat there, getting acquainted with the trees. And then I
AFTER CAMP ENDS, IN THE FEW WEEKS REMAINING BEFORE THEY
Most have begun to feel trepidation, to have second thoughts. Merry Mary, whose first year of marriage to Gumby will be consumed by their service at the station, admits to me at one point that the prospect of the long bleak winter is unnerving, her only previous Antarctic experience having been at the relatively luxe Palmer base, accessible by ship all year. “The Pole is so
There’s so much still that the group cannot know or control. When they finally do leave en masse in mid-October, they’ll go, for instance, without Loud Larry, he of the authoritarian temperament and multiple knives, who was asked at the last minute to withdraw. Bad weather later will strand the entire group first in New Zealand and then at McMurdo station, 840 miles from their
And then, for the next several months, the group will watch the sunlight at the Pole weaken, diminish, and finally disappear. By now, in early February, the first winds of winter will have begun to howl. Within the next two weeks, the last plane will arrive, carrying in 27,000 pounds of perishables to supplement the kilo of sun-dried tomatoes and 800 pounds of French Roast
Sara Corbett, who last chronicled the hapless U.S. ski-jumping team for Outside (February, 1996), is the author of Venus to the Hoop: A Gold Medal Year in Women’s Basketball (Doubleday).