The South Pole. What it was like for me living, working, and running at the bottom of the earth!
A day at work:
I take a deep breath and try to center myself.
"Focus Haley." I'm talking out loud for the company. My voice sounds small and hollow in the near dark.
Bend, lift, throw, grunt. Bang!
"Damn."
"DAMN." The sounds of both the bang and my voice reverberate throughout the cavern. I'm got to stop talking to myself.
The box of meat I had thrown had hit the cart and bounced, sliding across the snow covered wood floor and sending the cart spinning away in the opposite direction. I sigh.
"Okay, it's okay."
"Remember to breathe when you lift Haley."
My voice in the darkness is a little bit of comfort.
I'm standing in a large wooden crate, in a gigantic underground warehouse at the U.S. South Pole Station in Antarctica . The lights are dim and the shadows loom large in the towering metal shelves. Two floor to ceiling shelving structures divide the room lengthwise. Formidable wooden shipping crates and their much less substational carboard counterparts line the center aisle. The outside aisles are packed thick with food boxes of every size, boring me with their predictable brown or white color, scrawling 7 digit stock number, and the ubitquious stamp "for industrial use only". Because it takes so long for food to be delivered to the South Pole, the food here is also very old. Most of the food in the warehouse expired at least 5 years ago.
Here at the South Pole we proudly serve the most expensive food in the world, due to outrageous shipping and logistical demands. Everything is expensive here. Fuel comes to us at $30 a gallon and in the summer the station consumes around 18,000 gallons a week. The lights in the Logistics Arch (nicknamed the LO) drain enoungh power that if I turn them all on I can brown out the entire station. So I often work with just a single light on to minimize energy use.
The ice crystals on the wall catch my eye in the low side light. They are pretty but I find them slightly disturbing. They are the moisture from people's breath frozen on the walls. Years of people breathing and working down here underground. In some places the crystal layer must be 5 inches thick.
There's joke here, "It's a harsh continent." A catch phrase to explain everything.
You hear it all the time.
Down here folks like to think they still have a sense of humor.
My job here is to manage the food supply for the station. Funny thing is when you're talking about food, people often forget their sense of humor. My job is everything from ordering the food, to moving it, delivering it, rotating stock, thawing meat, and finding last minute out of stock food items that only exist in the long-term food supply stocks, a trip involving a lot of walking, a computer printout map, a hand pulled sled, and a shovel. That last job definitely requires a sense of humor.
My fingers are stiff and hurt badly, and I haven't been able to feel my nose for a while now. I try to not exhale as I bend forward because my breath makes my glasses ice over. -55F is the steady summertime temperature in the LO. As I work I constantly remind myself that this is way better than the computer time I'll put in later today.
I should go in and warm up, but I'd rather just knock this job out and be done.
The boxes of flank steak I’m moving today vary from 55 to 70 pounds. I'm throwing the boxes out of the crate and trying to land them on a wheeled cart so that I don't have to restack them.
Problem is the cart has wheels, and when the meat hits the cart, well, sometimes everything rolls away.
I climb out of the crate and drop to the ground with a thud. I wheel the cart offending over so it sits parallel with the crate and WHAM, slam down the huge box of meat with a clang. A few months ago that noise would have made me wince, but today, venting my frustration, it feels good.
I climb back into the crate, reach down for the next box, and let my thoughts drift.
I am already looking forward to my morning run. I have three hours of work left, and then I'm going to sauna, eat, walk home, and read until I pass out. I'll wake up a few hours later and head out into the daylight. In January it is always daylight at the South Pole. It's beautiful. The running locations are limited, but when I set out for a run I feel like I am leaving a ship and running on a frozen ocean. The ice sheet is not perfectly flat; there are large undulations and steep spines of snow called sastrugi. When I look out from the station it is like looking into infinity and the distant horizon shimmers.
Every morning my watch starts to beep at 4:55am. I have a deal with myself. If I can't get up for the first alarm, the next is set to 6:48am and I promise myself I'll get up right away so I won't be late for work. Every day I roll over and remind myself that 4 hours of sleep and a good run is better than 6 hours and no run. It's really hard to sleep at the pole, maybe because of the altitude, so it often doesn't make sense to sleep more than a few hours because all you do is jus lie there the rest of the time. Maybe tomorrow I'll sleep in, I tell myself. It always feels like there is never enough time and never enough sleep. When I do get up and decide to run, the first thing I do is check the weather on my computer. This morning the weather report read:
temperature -14.5F
wind speed 12.3 knots
wind chill -37.3F
barometer 683.5mb (10,496ft).
I start to get layered up. At Pole, the term "layering" takes on a whole new meaning.
I pull on two pair of running tights, three thin thermal shirts, a fleece, a sweater, thin balaclava, neck gaiter, hat, and wool socks. My running shoes have screws twisted into the soles for traction. I put my watch carefully over the layers on my wrist, throw on a set of gloves with mittens on top, tuck some hand warmers into the mittens, and then slide on my Darth Vador mask. This mask is a pair of goggles, the vents duck taped to keep the moisture out of the eyepiece, and a plastic face shield that comes down and covers my lower face. It is brilliant. Every day I send Smith Optics a silent thank you. Next I pack a waist belt with a wind jacket, a radio, extra gloves and a second neck gaiter. My head is fuzzy and my throat is so dry I can hardly lick my lips. My muscles ache and I am viciously hungry. I nibble a snickers, tuck the rest of it into my waist pack, and contemplate the idea of stretching. "Oh well, maybe next time." I mutter to myself.
I stumble out the door.
I squint into the harsh light and for a moment feel the warmth of the sun hit my body. I suddenly want to be wearing running shorts and a T-shirt. I want the feel of sun on my skin. Then the wind sinks through my layers and I am suddenly cold. The flags are whipping at a respectable clip and I know when I leave the windbreak of our closely placed tents the wind will cut through my clothes. I lower my mask and exhale as I start to jog across the snow.
I realize that while thinking about running I've almost completely emptied the crate. These daydreams get me through so much here. I'm struggling to finish these last few heavy boxes as they must be lifted higher to clear the crate walls. I take a breather and change the song on my iPod. I heave the last box to the lip of the crate and let it slide onto the towering stack that has grown on the cart. Grabbing a side of the box, I lift myself up and swing my legs up high, the weight of my knee-high boots and heavy insulated Carhartts giving my jump swing and momentum.
"And I give you a ten!" I think in an Oylmpic commentator voice as I hit the soft wood floor. It makes me smile. I'm teasing myself for fooling around with my jumps like a little kid on a playground.
It's good to keep a sense of humor down here.
Facing the next crate like a cowboy in a gunfight I whip out my banding clips, cut through the metal restraints, heft the lid over my head with a grunt and then breathe a sigh of relief. As I relax my shoulders drop reflexively and I almost knock myself on the head with the heavy wooden lid of the crate.
Hamburger buns. A box of light boxes. 'Bout time.
A day to run:
Today is Christmas Day and the "Race Around the World". I remember I mentioned it to my mom in one of our first conversations about going to the Pole. "Don't they run that one naked?" she asked. Having run over 20 marathons she's a bit of a race expert, but this time she's teasing me. There IS something here called the 300 club. During winter when it hits -100F, folks heat the sauna up past 200F, get toasty, drop their towels, and run naked to the Pole marker and back. Those runs get colder and colder as the magnetic Pole migrates farther from the station entrance by at least a meter every year.
I'm thinking these things as I walk to the station. I've got my running clothes tucked into my Antarctic issue orange gear bag. I've never raced before, but today's the day i'm going to give it a shot. My walk to the station is a great time to think. People new to the ice are mostly housed a quarter mile from station in "Summer Camp". A motley assortment of tents called Jamesways, they are modeled after North Korean war tents. Deep down I suspect some of the Jamesways actually are old North Korean war tents. Each tent has eight rooms which are divided by cloth curtains and occasional sheets of plywood. There is a long, dark, claustrophobic center hallway splitting the rooms. You can hear every movement in these tents, from a neighbor cracking a beer to setting down their laptop. Many of the rooms are windowless, and each room is about 5'x6'. I'm glad I'm short. At 5'3", when I lie straight on my bed both my head and my feet touch the ends of the bed frame. Mine room is nice- I have a window and good neighbors.
I step into the shadow of the station, and walk up the stairs to the door. The enormous building is elevated on stork-like leg supports to keep it from being buried in the snow that blows across the ice plateau. It's too cold here for it to snow more than a few times a year, but the drifts are huge. In theory the station will be raised with hydraulics every 15 years or so, but it a new station so they've got another 12 years or so to figure that one out.
Cracking the heavy metal doors that lock the heat in the station, I sweep aside the plastic strips that form another heat barrier from the chill outside. This plastic always reminds me of some kind of homegrown doggy door. The dark of the station contrasts starkly with the brilliant blue light outside and I am momentarily blinded. Standing dead center in the hallway I pause to wipe my boots as a cover for my lost sight. As my vision comes round I realize I've missed the door mat by several feet.
There is a hum in the station unusual for early on a Sunday morning. Almost instantly someone wishes me good luck in the race, and by the time I've gone up the second flight of stairs, 4 people have stopped me to talk running. I am not feeling quite awake yet and the enthusiasm is totally overwhelming. There are not many places to hide in the station, but if you want to limit your exposure, the women's bathroom is a safe place to start.
I find Christina standing in the middle of the bathroom looking almost as dazed and disoriented as I feel. She's holding a towel in one hand and is three quarters dressed in her work clothes.
"I think I'm going to take a shower".
"Uh huh." I say.
"I think that might be a good way to relax."
"Uh huh, sounds nice."
Silence.
Christina is a wonderful chef and works nights. It's 8 am and she's just come off her shift. We haven't really gotten past the “hi, how are you?” stage of our friendship, but suddenly we are rambling at each other. A half hour goes by and we are sitting on the ground, deep in conversation. Christina is my competition for the race, and I'm pretty sure she's faster than me. The winner of the race for both men and women gets a three day holiday to McMurdo station for a chance to run the McMurdo marathon. McMurdo is the largest base in Antarctica. US run, it is on the edge of the sea ice and woud be a chance to see penguins, birds, and seals, and enjoy some warm temperatures. Currently it's +40F there. I can't help myself, we start talking about training, our times, our motivations for winning. We're on the floor stretching, rolling about, giggling; sharing our secret hiding spot from a station buzzing with race speculation.
The more we talk, the better I feel. Our conversation has become personal and I'm seeing an emotional side to Christina I'd suspected but never seen. Winning the race means a lot to me, but suddenly I'm okay with her winning. I know she's faster than me, I've never been a fast runner and I've seen her training in the gym. But now she's a friend, and well, if I can't win, I want a friend to get the prize.
It's 12 minutes until the start of the race and we've lost track of time. Frantically pinning our race numbers to the backs of our thermals, we bust out of the bathroom to find a stream of people flowing out of the building. By the time we hit the stairs the crowd has become a river, and we separate in the madness, fumbling for gloves and neck gaiters.
We get outside and it's HOT! Hotter than I've felt all season. I'm pulling off layers frantically and have to enlist a passerby to re-pin my race number on the back of my shirt. I feel like I'm going to miss the start. And the starting line is exploding. Someone is walking around in running shoes and a head to toe suit of silver sequins. On inquiring I find it is Pablo, the gentle and dreamy IT guy. He explains he is reusing his human disco ball costume from last year's Burning Man festival. People are wearing wings and wigs and dresses, driving about on snowmobiles, and discussing the direction of the course from the starting line. I feel like the direction from the starting line should be obvious, but upon closer inspection I realize there are three large machinery tracks in the snow, converging at the race line and mysteriously heading in separate directions thereafter. Hmm where DOES the race course go?
There is a tall stocky man with a bullhorn capering around in a flowing green superhero cape and a Santa red onesy- complete with a drop seat. He is jumping and spinning and both graceful and preposterous at the same time. I realize with a smile its Captain Don, head of the fire squad. Oh dear. He looks like he's having a good time of it. He also seems to be in charge and he starts marshalling the troops to the starting line.
I have so much energy I move away from the line and start doing a few handstands and cartwheels. It's an old trick of mine to help with nerves. I scuttle back to the start of the line and sneak in next to Ricky. Ricky is a professional runner working as a dishwasher here at Pole, and I'm sure if anyone knows which way the course goes from the starting line, it's Ricky.
A tall woman named Katie is standing next to me, she's been working in Antarctica for years.
"Have you ever won the race Katie?"
"Nope, I always go for second, the prize is a massage in Christchurch ."
"Heck ya, that sounds nice."
We shuffle around for a minute or two.
"Well, good luck girl! Hey do you know which way the course goes from here?"
"Not really, I think maybe to the right of Captain Don."
"Right, great, thanks."
Captain Don's voice comes over the bullhorn suddenly, "Three, Two, One!" and Ricky is leading the pack, yes to the right, and breaking out in front of the other runners quickly. I want to do well, but I'm intrigued by what else is happening on the course. Curtis is just behind Ricky. Curtis is another amazing runner here at Pole, and from the start of the season the Ricky/Curtis question has been a hot topic. Which one will win? Christina is just slightly ahead of me and Katie at my side. A girl in hot pink leggings and a grey sweatshirt is at the front of the pack wearing pastel pink bunny ears. I hear Katie's voice at my side, "who IS that, she's fast, who IS that!" I grunt. I got nothing; she's totally unfamiliar to me.
My legs are burning. I rarely stretch well before running and I think my long stretching session before the race may not have done me any favors. "You overstretched, you idiot" I scold. But I let it go, there's nothing to be done for it now. Did you think your first race would feel comfortable?
I am trying to pace myself. Ricky's words of advice are ringing in my ears. "Make sure you're not out of breath by the time you hit the big hill. You shouldn't be in oxygen deprivation that early in the race. The race really starts once you go through the tunnel. It's all uphill after that point, even though it looks flat. Once you go through the tunnel, it's on."
I am coming to the hill and can see Ricky's head just dropping behind it already. Heck yeah Ricky! I try to pace myself up the hill and still pass a few runners along the way, I like running up hills. This one is artifical; made by the heavy equipment operators for sledding and running. As I get to the top I reckon I'm a bit more out of breath than I should be but try to stretch my legs and pass a few more folks on the downhill. I love running fast down hills. Wahoo!!!
Now it's the stretch to the tunnel and I'm trying to keep my breathing easy. Christina starts to break out away from the rest of the girls, and Katie passes me as well. Of the four of us, I am now last. "The race really starts at the tunnel, the race really starts at the tunnel. Keep your breathing easy."
My breathing is getting a bit ragged. My legs are burning. Snowmobiles and giant snow moving tractors with outrageously dressed observers are hooting and cat calling as they drive around us.
I get to the tunnel, this huge above ground tunnel made of sheet metal whose purpose I have always found completely baffling. As I enter it I start to pick up steam. I’m shoulder to shoulder with Katie. The mystery girl in pink starts to drop back. Christina's lead has widened. There's a part of me that is sure I can still catch up to her, maybe pass her, but my lungs are not agreeing with that idea.
Second, I think. I could do with a massage in Christchurch. For sure.
Katie is a good runner though. We run side by side past the boxes of food and science supplies stored in rows in the snow. "The Berms." Making a sharp right we parallel the skiway, and I think "Ricky, I can't tell if this is uphill, it's just hard."
I'm going to have to walk for a second,
My lungs are burning and my legs still feel like Jello. I abruptly stop running and Katie grabs my shoulder, "Keep going, you can do this, you're doing great!" I want to hug her, and I don't have the breath to tell her not to worry, I'm fine. I wave her on and take a ten second stumble watching the runners pass me. Now I'm better, and feeling a bit like a jerk as I pass Katie and put a bit of space between us. Ricky is already turning towards the finish line.
I'm second for the women now and can tell there is no way to catch up with Christina. All I need to do now is make sure to keep my lead on Katie. As I turn from the skiway towards the Pole marker I am closing in on the finish line. Feeling like I'm in a movie I laugh at myself but can't help looking back several times to make sure I still have a safe distance from Katie. I just need to know. And now I'm coming up to the finish line. My breath is coming in jagged gasps and I am feeling lightheaded but there is no way I am going to stop now. As I cross the finish line I bend over and try to catch my breath. It takes several minutes for me to slow my breathing down.
When I finally get my head up I’m smiling. That was a hoot! I grab Ricky in a big hug and congratulate him- he finished with a wide lead on Curtis. ”I really liked racing Ricky; I would totally do that again!” He smiles and starts talking about races in New Zealand he’s thinking about for when we get off the ice. He invites me to race a few with him and I smile. “Sounds like great fun.” I wander off.
I am looking around for Christina and Katie to congratulate them as well, but I can’t seem to find either of them in the crowd of people. I head off to grab my jacket before I get cold and can’t resist a few more cartwheels along the way.
__________________________________________________
The Storm:
What's it really like running at the South Pole?
People often ask if it's quiet running at the South Pole. It's not. Your feet crunch into the snow with each step, the pitch varying with the hardpack of the snow. Your breath crackles and wheezes. And the wind when it's blowing, and it's almost always blowing, buffets your head and sings songs in your ears. But the loudest thing running at the South Pole is your thoughts. Simliar to running in the desert, the expanse of space as you head out from the station is endless.
My thoughts often start simple as I run. How do my legs feel, am I dehydrated, isn't the sky beautiful. The longer I'm out running the louder my thoughts become. It's almost as if I'm hearing the words out loud. Today I am out in a whiteout and my thoughts are competing with a howling wind.
"Stupid Haley, this is kinda stupid."
"Okay stop here and look."
"NO, don't take your googles off, it's not going it be easier to see without them. Remember, you just tried that. It was worse."
"I must be off the track."
I'm running on the cross country ski loop just south of station. There is a storm and since setting out for my run the horizon has disappeared and so has the track. With the wind blowing, I know that I very well could be on the loop but the hardpacked track is drifted over. Especially on this furthest section. I noticed last week that it drifted over quite deep out here when the rest of the track was fine. Drifts build quickly when the wind picks up. My second week at pole we had a large storm with whiteout conditions. I left my jamesway in the middle of the night to use the toilet, and slammed face first into a 6 ft tall drift of snow. It had drifted up from nothing in about 5 hours and in the blowing snow I hadn't been able to see it at all.
My feet are punching through the hard surface crust of snow into soft whiteness. Thwack, thwack, thwack. My running has turning into a shuffle and I stop. Standing still for a minute, I start to turn in a circle, mystified. I'm not worried at all about being lost. I can clearly make out the station. I have no fear of wandering off in the wrong direction. But my immediate vision has disappeared. I should be able to see contours in the snow, the ski loop, and the horizon. Instead, I am inside a white so even that there is no up or down, no ground or sky. It's fantastic, and it's also slightly nauseating. I don't think brains like this kind of optical illusion. I turn away from the emptyness to the south and look at the station to steady my head.
"Just a bit further" I think, "I'm going in the right direction, I bet I'll feel the track under my feet any second."
Five minutes later I turn around defeated. I'm sinking mid-calf in the snow and the wind is beating down on me, pushing be backwards. My legs are tingling intensely and I know that if I looked at my skin I'd be beet-red all over, even with all my layers.
Following my footsteps back, I start laughing. My tracks are in a tightknit, s-shaped pattern. I'd been so disorientated I couldn't even run straight. My weaving footsteps look like a snake track in the sand. Eventually my feet connect with hardpacked snow at the spot where I'd left the trail. As I run home the storm begins to lift.
A swirling hole of blue sky opens to my left. I watch the clouds. They are moving so quickly it's mesmerizing. The wind is really whipping. I look just behind my right shoulder and see that a ray of light is shining through the hole up there and illuminating a bank of clouds on the opposite side of the sky. With the tint of my googles the clouds look like bars of gold against a grey silk drop cloth. Oh yeah. I think lovingly of my camera, tucked away in my Jamesway. Bummer. If I wasn't so chilled from the wind I'd stay out, run further, maybe check out the ski runway.
The light shimmering is so beautiful it takes my breath away. For a moment I can really believe that I am standing at the very bottom of the world.
"Later," I think. "I should go out for a second run later."
There is always that run waiting for me tomorrow.
