Chichi's Ice Adventure: Last Flight Out

On the most typical and extraordinarily average Friday, I stood on the deck of the Chalet and, quite literally, waved goodbye to the last flight out of Antarctica. On that deck, on a frozen South Pacific island, at the bottom of the world, I expected to feel some deep and profound isolation, some thick foreshadowing atmosphere of the winter to come. Instead, I felt a comfortable sense of stability. This.is.it. For the next five and a half months, it is just me and 197 other people.

The truth, is that while the environment here is starkly harsh and circumstances unique, so much of life on Ross Island is uncommonly routine. We are all part of the looming neon-blue NSF (National Science Foundation) clock in the Galley; our wheels and levers clicking and ticking the long sunshine filled days of summer into the dark night of winter.

Life in Antarctica is saturated with tradition. Festivities to celebrate the last flight out were no exception. However, as evidenced by controversy, threats to tradition or deviation from routine are not tolerated well. I fear the Wednesday that dare be absent of cookies. And yet, as a community we are quick to embrace new traditions, to create something of our own, which, incidentally, has become a tradition in its own right: developing a theme or tone for each new winter. Oddly enough, this tone is something that just happens as we get to know one another and allow people past the barriers we work so hard to maintain during the summer months and our usual lives back in the land of constant criticism. It is here, in this entirely isolated community, that function is more important than fashion and comradery is as vital to one’s survival as keeping warm.

A mere three months ago, I was part of an entirely different community (The Austral Summer Community). Three months ago, I was still relatively unknown, anonymous and only peripherally part of a pack. Three months ago, I stood alone on the trail around Observation Hill on Christmas Day. It was in that moment, when I paused along the back slope and sat down on the loose volcanic rock, that I realized something: right here, right now, I am living my dream. For ten years I’d dreamt of coming to Antarctica. For ten years the idea remained something that I would do someday. Now, here I am, living the dream…staring out across miles and miles of ice in the coldest and driest continent on earth, contemplating what I will dream next.

With the arrival of the last of our winter crew, the community is still working itself out; still clinging to the familiarity of summer existence and attempting to grow out of its braces. Will it truly be the best winter ever? Only time will tell…