Fucking Antarctica

As summer is beginning to come to a close, it seems fitting to do a series of posts inspired by the time I spent living at the South Pole. Though living in Western North Carolina gives me a more gentle summer than most in this country, there are still many days when I pine for a less humid and much cooler temperature. I have a glass of the good whiskey poured as I prepare to record the audio, because well hell, I am exited about this series.

In truth, as with most major decisions since June 2007, the dream to live and work at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole station came from attempting to keep my grip on the tale of the tiger — in this case the tiger is the beautiful and brilliant woman I married. While I can never be sure if I ever would have heard of the United States Antarctic Program without her, I had certainly not been aware of it before she let me know she planned to work there one day. I think when this first happened I did what most people do when a person says such a comment. I nodded affirmatively, agreed to support her, and then immediately forgot the plan as if she had told me she wished to grow corn on the moon. This was not, and certainly will not be the last time, I made myself “look like an idiot in front of T-bone.”1 To be fair, I had no idea who I had married.

Fast forward a couple of years. Turns out there is a position my better half would like to apply for at one of the three Antarctic stations run by the USAP — wait there are three stations? Oh shit, this is real! Obviously, my kick-ass-wife got the job. I did not get a job. So she went to live and work at Palmer Station down in Antarctica for a six month stint. While this was not ideal, we said our goodbyes and we both started new adventures — though hers was way sexier. It is pretty fucking cool knowing someone who is traveling down to Antarctica. While I can attest that it is astronomically better to be going with your wife, it’s still pretty damn amazing.

Two months. Apparently that is my threshold for being apart from my wife. At that point shit went sideways for me. It was not fun anymore. This time can best be described by all those around me who, went I looked for comfort, did not understand why wife would do such a thing, or why I would let her — let her (um, maybe you have a different relationship with your wife my man. I don’t let my wife do shit). Anyway, suffice to say it was a “dark fucking period.”2

Rinse and repeat. The wife gets another job, this time at the South Pole for the summer. Again I am incapable of landing a job, even as a dish cleaner. At this point in life, the dream of living and working in Antarctica was becoming a nightmare to me. “Fuck Antarctica,” was sometimes passing my lips in quiet whispers. Still I read the books on the history and tried to keep up with a wife who had gotten me thrilled about what it would be like to get down there.

Four years after she took that first Antarctic job, I stepped onto the two miles of glacial ice where the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station rests. I had gone through an extensive medical screening, underwent surgery to have a gallbladder removed so I could go (long story), and walked towards the station in mild disbelief that what I was experiencing was real. The wind whipped its icy tentacles around me in a “hey fuck you” kind of welcome as I slowly made my way toward the building. I almost fell to my knees in gratitude as my emotions threatened to overwhelm me, but I was too terrified someone would think there was something wrong with me and send me home. Until the station closes for the Winter any position can be threatened by a broken leg or some other discovered ailment that prevents you from staying. I had made it and I was determined to stay — so no kneeling down like some whack job!

Today’s post will end there, at the doors to the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station. If you keep reading in the future weeks, my stories will take you through ice tunnels under the station, into the bizarre life found in communities living so secluded, and who knows where else.

If I was pressed into finding a message for this post, and I am because that’s the whole shtick of this deal, it could probably be summed up in a phrase often attributed to Dwayne Johnson. Yes, you guessed it, “Suck it up buttercup.” This is the kind of phrase my mom likes, though she normally does not say it so politely.

It was a rough fucking journey getting to the South Pole. Not as rough as the teams of explorers who first discovered it, but pretty damn tough for me. I have not given up an organ on any other quest in my life. Nothing has broken me so severely to then forge me into something so uniquely new on the other side, besides maybe my conversion to my faith. All of my life is now colored by the ice. Antarctica is in my blood, as they say, and it calls to me. If the USAP allowed families on station, we would definitely be doing all we could to live down there, at least off and on.

As I write about the experiences from living and working on the frozen continent, I will attempt to tease out why it has had such an effect on me, and so many others. But for today, perhaps like me, you need to hear — Suck the it the Fuck Up Buttercup! We do not always get to choose our path and sometimes it really fucking sucks. Pick a point and focus your way to the other side, if the other side even exists. I get it, there are those of us who have to suck it up through shit that will never end. I hate that for you and for myself. But we still need to get our shit together. I still need to wake the fuck up every single day and work the problems before me. So do you.

I realize I do not know most any of you well enough to deliver such a message. But, hey, there it is nonetheless.