Dry Land

I’m starting this post sitting up on my bunk in cabin D30 – one cabin mate is snoozing, the other is typing. It’s Thursday 28 Feb and we’re chugging across a flat, calm ocean, just a day outside Hobart. We’ll dock on Friday evening, and this big adventure will have come to an end by the time I post this.

It’s time to emerge from the cocoon of the Aurora Australis. In the belly of the ship time moves strangely, slipping by in a blur. I’ll have been on board 29 days – and they’re hard to account for. Changing light and changing time zones increase the confusion. We did a ‘monster clock’ time change this week – on Monday after lunch, clocks jumped forward four hours. Most expeditioners are still trying to get into normal sleep rhythms after that.

It’s poignant being on one of the final voyages of the ship – she’s been doing the Antarctic run for thirty years and is full of history and memory. Sometime next season she’ll be replaced by a much larger purpose-built icebreaker. I’m glad to have sailed on her this time, with the crew that’s run her for many years, and all her creaks and groans and idiosyncrasies.

The AA’s crew has raised money for Camp Quality over that thirty year period, and we did our bit with an auction. Goods ranged from exquisite hand made timber items (clocks, lamps, etc using spare timber from the station) to a genuine Antarctic beard, to one-off experiences – one person bid to be on the bridge for the docking of the ship, able to toot the horn and use the radio, another paid for a behind the scenes tour of the ship, to the parts that passengers don’t see. The Arts Fellows donated naming rights for a TV character, and a signed copy of Stay The Last Dog in Antarctica – which together raised nearly $900. The auction in total raised $25k – not a bad effort for 130 people.

For the first fortnight the ship was stooging (the official term for kicking your heels) around the Antarctic coastline between Davis and Mawson. Although it felt odd to be filling in time, the reality was superb. We cruised through a massive iceberg field, saw magnificent and rare jade bergs, experienced a full-on blizzard with high seas (up to 8 metres) and winds (over 100km per hour). Thanks to the magic of seasickness patches I could even stand up on the bridge during that time, which was exhilarating. At one stage, close to sunset with a calm sea, we were surrounded by whale plumes in every direction – dozens if not hundreds of minke whales feeding on krill.

No internet or mobile phone access increases the dreamlike quality of the trip. I’ve loved the old fashioned entertainments – card games, board games, ‘assassin’ where you draw a name from the hat and have to try and catch that person alone to knock them off. The world 500 championship. Pictionary on the mess whiteboard. Evening presentations on people’s work and interests. Movies in the cinema, binge watching TV series. Gym. Long, rambling conversations. Loads of great food. Naps.

Jane and I have completed two big projects on the ship. We wrote the second draft of our first middle grade Antarctic adventure novel, and the ‘bible’ (blueprint) for the Antarctic TV series. It’s incredibly satisfying to have them done and ready to move to the next step – involving a production company for the TV series, and involving a publisher for the book (and the other two planned books in the trilogy).

It’s been an extraordinary adventure – one of the biggest in my lifetime. Feels like it will take months to absorb it all. I’m feeling such gratitude – not only for this experience, but for my life and loved ones at home – you all feel very precious to me and I can’t wait to see you again. Thanks for sharing the journey.

 

 

 

 

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Heading Home

IMG_5023I’m in classic Antarctica, where the phrase to live by is ‘Hurry up and wait’ and controlled chaos reigns.

Station work programs theoretically wrapped up on the Australia Day weekend, with celebrations including the summer dip (in sub-freezing sea water), and the world’s greatest drive-in cinema, seated on armchairs and/or heavy machinery in the mechanical workshop.

Now it’s station resupply – the transition between outgoing and incoming teams, stocking the station with the next year’s supplies, and taking away our rubbish and return cargo.

IMG_4920 (1)The good ship Aurora Australis arrived early in the week and then spent several days clearing ice from the harbour and straits in front of the station, making accessways for the barge and small watercraft. All cargo has to be shifted onto the barge with a crane, shuttled a few hundred metres across the water, and lifted onto the ship by crane. And the reverse for anything coming off the ship. It’s not just small cargo and containers – massive machines are also being swapped in and out.

People are swapping too – the new winter team has been squeezed into spare beds on station so they can help with resupply and have handovers from the outgoing team. One or two at a time, the outgoing expeditioners are shuttled over to the ship to take up residence as their presence is no longer needed.

Arts fellows are considered non-essential (who knew?), so Jane and I were the first to be sent packing to the Aurora Australis, to free up our rooms for the new team. It all happened in true hurry up and wait fashion – after three days on standby, we had an hour’s notice to finish up at slushy (kitchen) duties and then a mad rush to stuff our last things in our bags, get into our regulation hundred layers of survival gear and head to the wharf for our transfer. There to wait in a tiny container for two hours until the barge could take us.

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It felt very strange to go – quickly, early and unceremoniously – but as it turned out, boarding the Aurora Australis was like coming back to an old friend – she’s a familiar beast, whose corridors and routines I know – and she signals the last phase of this adventure – the month-long journey home. Plus the views back to the station and the ice plateau – while being surrounded by icebergs – are pretty glorious.

There’s a sign bolted to the rocks at the entrance to Horseshoe Harbour that says ‘It’s Home, It’s Mawson’. This place has been home for the past three months and it’s hard to say goodbye. Being sent to the ship was a practice run, but when the time comes, we’ll all gather up on deck and watch the new inhabitants let off flares, sending us on our way with well wishes. Mawson will be their home, and we’ll travel back to our homes and loved ones.

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I want to say a word about loved ones. They’re sometimes forgotten or overlooked, but for many expeditioners, the loved ones at home are what makes it all possible and that’s certainly true for me. My darling Andi freely encouraged me to go away for five months, and generously took over managing our home and unruly garden by herself. She’s been the loving voice on the end of the phone, the sweet texts to wake up to on station, the photos of everyday life, the sounding board for problems, and the absolute rock in hard times. She’s not the only one – family and friends have sent love, stayed in touch, spoken on the phone, texted, emailed, commented on facebook or here, and let me know I’m in their thoughts. At lonely and homesick times that has been a lifeline – and even in the midst of great adventures I’ve loved the messages from home, no matter how small. Thank you everyone – I hope you realise how much it’s meant to me (even if I haven’t always answered promptly).

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From my social media posts you could conclude that I’ve spent this time out on one adventure after another – however I can report that actual and substantial work has been done. Plus, photos of writers at work are terribly boring. Jane and I are finishing a second draft of our kids adventure novel, and finalising work on the TV series so we’ll have a ‘bible’ (a blueprint document) done within a week or two of getting home. Other ideas have bubbled up during my time here, and some of them are now works in progress. I’m looking forward to a month on the ship without internet or mobile, to relax, rejuvenate, and focus on writing.

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The time here on the continent is nearly done, but there’s still a month to go before reaching Australia – who knows what this time will bring?

It will be quieter though! With less social media, less time outdoors, and more sleep. A chance to reflect, decompress, rest and recharge before entering normal life again. I’m hoping for a very creative period.

Thanks for sharing the journey so far and I look forward to seeing you back in the real world.

Love Jesse xxx

 

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Five days in the field

IMG_3911 (1).jpgEveryone says the Antarctic summer at Mawson is short – and now I know why. The station celebrated the end of summer last night by transforming into a casino and festivities went on until the wee small hours. Field travel off the station finishes up today. The works program wraps up this Wednesday, then on Thurs and Fri all hands join in for a massive station cleanup in preparation for the new winter crew’s arrival. It’s all coming to an end quickly (though there’s still a very long voyage home).

I don’t expect I’ll have a chance to come back here to Mawson – and so img_1008I decided to take every opportunity to go out and explore this incredible place before heading home.

Last Saturday was climbing Mount Henderson – a scramble up a scree slope to a rocky outcrop near the summit, and then roping up for a two-pitch climb to the top. Notice how casually I dropped that in? Having never climbed with ropes before, this was quite something for me. The first two

steps were fine and then I had no idea what limb to move or how to get myself up. Had to just launch skywards, forget about dignity, scramble and hope for the best. Rather to my surprise I made it. At the top – an incredible vista of the surrounding mountain ranges and the ice plateau stretching south forever.

Tuesday, the station’s field training officer Mark took Donna the chef, plus Jane and me, out to visit the old Russian aircraft. The plane was damaged while trying to take off from the plateau back in 1965 and then later flipped over during a blizzard, marking the end of its flying days. Legend has it the hapless pilot was sent to a Siberian gulag. In 1968, following the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia, a Czech bulldozer driver working at Mawson took a machine up the hill and wreaked vengeance on the plane, leaving the crushed and twisted remains visible today, slowly being carried down the plateau in the ice.

To get to the plane we travelled up the plateau in a Hagg, then got geared up for glacier travel to cross a crevasse field – four of us helmeted, harnessed and roped together, with ice axes, crampons and lots of dangling bits of equipment and rope for a rescue situation in case anyone fell through the ice.

Yep, I’m cool with this, no problem. Another day, another crevasse field.

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It felt like walking over honeycomb – on the surface the ice was white and frosty, quite snow-like. Then I’d glimpse a crack with the blue deepening to indigo as it went deeper and deeper – and I realised that under my feet was a huge network of cracks and cavities in the ice. Most of them were invisible. Although they appeared to be narrow, falling into one can be dangerous.

Got through without a fall, and then clambered onto the wreck of the plane, which was an incongruous and strangely beautiful thing. Walking over the wing in crampons was also incongruous and strangely beautiful.

img_4015 (1)Thursday and Friday – the chance to go on two final caning trips with Mark, drilling holes and installing bamboo canes on the travel routes at the far edge of station operating area. Jane and I did a lot of caning over the season – it was a great chance to get out, and good to contribute to an important station job. Plus a caning trip means using power tools, always a bonus.

Back to the station on Friday afternoon and a two hour turnaround, out again for the final trip – an overnight jolly to Rumdoodle Hut with a Nick and Curly. Beer and cheese on the balcony watching the sunset, a ten minute moonrise and fall, dinner and yarning and playing guitar in the hut, and then spending my last night in the field in a bivvy bag on the ground. The next day we met up with another field group and hiked up another mountain. A beautiful final chapter to my off-station adventures.

img_4414Being out in the field has been both glorious, and challenging. I’ve experienced something close to rapture in that incredible landscape – a sense of expanding into it and feeling a kind of communion. And I’ve had the opposite experience too – of feeling incredibly small-minded, as if the immensity around me magnifies obsessive thoughts.

I’m very glad to have slept on the ground for my last night – there’s something very beautiful about that physical connection with the land.

Now a new phase starts – the wrap up. In true Antarctic fashion, a high degree of uncertainty now reigns. The ship is on the way, but might arrive early or late. If there’s still too much sea ice around, it will have to do a modified station resupply – parking out past the sea ice and using choppers to ferry people and cargo back and forth. Jane and I will be the first ones sent off station (our beds are needed for the new crew) and will start our month on the ship, possibly as early as next weekend. However, if the sea ice has melted enough, the ship can anchor near the station and the resupply will be done by barge. In that case I may be able to come back to the station every day – and may even get out into the field again to work with the bird biologists.

I’m cultivating an attitude of open heart and no expectations. And beginning the process of saying goodbye to this incredible place.

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Colour, light, darkness

Antarctic summer peaked last week, with daytime temperatures reaching five degrees. In front of the station, the sea ice is still cracking up and melting, especially at the tidelines. On the hottest days, turquoise melt streams gushed down the ice plateau behind the station and the 5km walking loop on the ice became soft and rather treacherous.img_e0350 (1)IMG_0382.jpg

Now things have changed again. It’s only two weeks since the summer solstice, but already I can feel the season’s turn. Temperatures are dropping, puddles and melt streams refreezing. We’re still experiencing 24-hour daylight, but in the wee small hours the sun dips low, light turns gold and shadows stretch long over the sea ice. Official sunsets return in 10 days.

IMG_E9301.jpgFour pretty major things since I last wrote. A few weeks ago Jane and I finished the first draft of book one in our middle grade fiction trilogy – 33,000 words written jointly – a tale of four kids on an Antarctic adventure that becomes a fight for survival. I’ve never actually written with someone else – sitting side by side and writing alternating chapters – and it worked really well. Completing a draft was further than I’d expected to get. In fact, it was exhilarating.

Secondly – I survived survival training. It was relatively benign, given the warm time of the year, but it pushed me. Jane, Amy and I spent three days out in the field learning how to ride quad bikes on ice and snow, how to retrieve a stuck quad bike, how to put up an emergency tent between two quad bikes, how to sink snow anchors and ice screws, how to make a pulley, how to use an ice axe to get out of sea ice if it collapsed beneath you, how to assemble and use an emergency stove without incinerating self or others.

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On the second night in the field I slept in a bivvy, which is a fancy name for a large yellow plastic bag, aka the chip packet. Given I haven’t slept on the ground in a million years, I was nervous. In fact, it was beautiful lying on the rocks watching snow petrels wheeling around the cliffs above me, and then tucking down into the bag and actually managing to sleep for a few hours.

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Straight after survival training we repacked, turned around and headed out on the quads again for a jolly – another night in a field hut, this time purely for fun. Wrapped up the next day with a long walk up a scree slope in high winds, during which I mentally composed farewell messages to my loved ones in case I expired. (For some reason it doesn’t look nearly as scary and steep and windy in the photo!) Then set out on the journey back to station and experienced what happens with thick cloud cover – it becomes physically impossible to discern depth on the snow, and therefore very difficult to ride. Something I’d heard described but never experienced.

Out in the field I felt euphoria, terror, frustration, exultation, and most things in between. In some areas I surprised myself with capability, but in many more I struggled – mostly in keeping track of the vast range of gear that I had to carry and manage, and also in facing physical fears.

Back from the field, exhausted – and straight into Christmas. Getting into the spirit, helping with meal and decoration prep, sending messages home. The station makes a massive effort for Christmas, but it was always going to be a hard time – the gathering of my clan every second year is something I really love, and missing it was sad. Then just before bed on Christmas Eve I received news that my cousin Peter had died very suddenly of a heart attack while visiting Australia from his LA home. I haven’t seen Peter for a long time, apart from our interactions on facebook, but I felt heartbroken for his family. His elderly mother was waiting for Peter to fly to Ballina for Christmas – the first one they would have spent together in years – and he died in Sydney at 5am Christmas morning without seeing her. It was tough news on day that already held challenges.

The sea ice in Horseshoe Bay has been cracking up, rotting and melting in the past few weeks and it mirrored my internal landscape. I was just over halfway through the season, interacting with other people almost every waking hour, under the gaze of 24 hour daylight, in a stark and stripped down landscape. Sensitivities and vulnerabilities magnified, and it was hard to distinguish reality from my own reactions. I felt isolated, left out, adrift. Difficult emotions became even harder to manage in these conditions – with a small group of people day and night. I spent a lot of time flailing around, trying to get back on an even keel. Moments of darkness were interspersed with times of great beauty, fun and friendship, but I was struggling.

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Long conversations with trusted loved ones at home helped hugely (thank goodness for the satellite phone system), as did Jane’s patience in listening and helping talk through things. And I became aware that the station is a watchful place – in the best sense. After I disappeared into my room for most of a day, I was greeted by gentle inquiries about my wellbeing, from people I wouldn’t have expected to notice my absence. By New Year’s Eve I was very touched by the relationships that have been forged here – and the reminder that I’m not the only person in the world who has vulnerabilities. My respect increased for the people who do this over winter, in darkness, isolated with an even smaller group.

And this all led to a brilliant night of fancy dress, dancing, air guitar, snowflakes, and high jinks to see in the new year, in one of the old huts in the original station. An absolutely joyful celebration.

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Five days into 2019, I feel mostly out of the woods. I’m back in the joy of being in this incredible place. Jane and I are well into developing the TV series, so the excitement of creative expression is back. Some other creative ideas – perhaps in other forms – are starting to bubble up inside me. It has been a hard time, but perhaps an important balance to the jubilation of the first half of the season. And all part of the journey of being here, exploring and understanding what it is to live and work in this sublime and intense place.

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Time’s moving very fast now. Winterers are starting to get organised for the journey home, schedules are being drawn up, paperwork for cargo submitted, days being counted down. There’s really only three more weeks of station operations to go. And then a long month on the ship…

I wish you all the very best for 2019.

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Sundays on ice

IMG_9645I’ve been at Mawson for a month, during which time we’ve got to 24 hour sunlight – the photo above was the last sunset. I’m hoping not to count days and weeks until I leave again, but it’s hard to avoid. The four month fellowship, which felt so long before I left home, feels surprisingly short here, especially now I know how much of it is taken up with ship-time. The weeks are flying past and the ship returns at the end of January. Jane and I will be shuttled across to it in short order, to free up bedrooms for the incoming winter team who’ll be working to unload cargo and fuel for about a week.

But that’s a way off still, and now it’s the weekend, and the sun’s streaming in my bedroom window I’m just back from walking on the ice.

Although people are rostered to work Saturday mornings, once that’s done the weekends are for jollies (trips off station by Hagglunds or quad bike), games, movies, walks, special events, rock climbing, spa, catch-and kill-feeding (helping yourself from the substantial leftovers in the fridge or subsisting on cereal and toast so the hard working chef can have a day off). It’s also much-needed down time, to lay low and chill out.

Weekend activities that I’ve been part of so far: Pictionary, Cranium (which is a mix of Pictionary, Charades and play dough), cards, pool and killer darts. Formal dinner last night with wine, linen table cloths, multi-courses of delicious food and everyone unrecognisable in fresh, ironed shirts. Last week there was a Mexican fancy dress party (with outdoor bath) in the old station buildings – no stinting on the costumes, sourced from the vast array of dressups hiding in the cellar of the Red Shed.

And then there’s weekend adventures, even for those of us not yet authorised to go out ourselves. For these we rely heavily on Mark, our good natured Field Training Officer, who must accompany any untrained people when they leave the station.

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We travel by Hagg way up onto the plateau between three mountain ranges, drilling holes and setting cane lines to mark the safe routes. Mark drives the Hagg, navigating to the waypoints with a GPS and calculating how many canes are needed along the route. We rookies become a well-oiled machine, leaping out of the Hagg one side at a time (otherwise the wind rips through the vehicle), scratching in our cleats over the blue ice to the back door, getting out the ice drill. Amy drills the holes, adding an extension to reach down a couple of metres. Jane gets out the bamboo cane and sets it in the hole (a deep and beautifully blue well going down into the ice). We shove the ice shavings back into the hole and I pour in a few glugs of water, which will freeze the cane in place. Everything returns to the back of the Hagg, we jump inside again, proceed three hundred metres, repeat. Each time, standing and looking around at ice stretching to the horizons, rocky mountains, and frozen sea dotted with icebergs in the distance, under the flat white polar light. I can’t express how joyful this day made me.

Another weekend: A two-Hagg run across the sea ice to Bechervaise Island, eight of us shuttling containers of food and water to last two penguin researchers the six weeks they’ll spend living out there, unable to return to station once the sea ice melts. Enough time to scramble around the island and explore, and check out the male Adelie penguins, sitting patiently on the eggs in their rocky nests, having a two week fast until the females return from foraging and the pairs switch over. The penguin researchers have the world’s best cubby houses – a melon hut, a shipping container, and two googies which look just like they’ve landed from outer space. I wanted nothing more than to spend six weeks living in a googie too – staring out at the icebergs, surrounded by penguins hatching their chicks.

Today: the ever-patient Mark guides us on a 2 hour walk up the ice plateau behind the station. It’s warm and sunny and beneath our feet slender crevasses give us a peek into the deep blue heart of the ice. We drill holes and put in a few more canes, which gives us a sense of purpose. By the end of next week I’ll be able to do this walk alone or with others and I’m imagining it will replace the gym as the daily exercise.

For the rest of today – a movie later on, and now working on the Kris Kringle. This is a major station project – everyone draws someone else out of the hat, and the challenge is to make the gift by hand, right here at Mawson. This is easier for some people – carpenters, say – than others (such as… writers). A visit to the carpenters’ workshop and the mechanics’ shed the other night showed me the incredible lengths to which people will go to make something special.

The pressure’s on and I must get cracking. Over and out from Mawson.

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Time moves differently here

Twenty three hours of sunup today, 18 minutes more than yesterday. When the sun’s below the horizon it isn’t dark, just less bright. In a couple more days we’ll be in round-the-clock Antarctic sunlight.

Time feels at once endlessly stretching out, and in short supply. It’s hard to recall if something happened this morning, or three days ago.

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amy and us in hagg

So I find that it’s a week since I travelled to the emperor penguin colony, on an unforgettable Thursday. Two Hagglunds all-terrain vehicles to carry eight of us over 50 kilometres of dimpled, rippled frozen pale blue sea to reach Auster rookery.

Amy the diesel mechanic drives the Hagg that Jane and I are riding in. On the land side, the blue slopes and cliffs of the Antarctic ice sheet. On the ocean side, scattered icebergs in shapes and sizes and magnificence that make me gasp out loud.

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Seeing emperor penguins breeding in the wild is incredibly rare and precious. Am I really here? Hard to believe what’s unfolding around me.

We stop several times to drill into the sea ice to check its thickness. The season for travelling by Hagg on sea ice officially closes on 25 Nov, and is extended on a trip-by-trip basis. The Mawson winterers have been coming out once a month since June and have watched the emperors arrive, court, lay eggs, and hatch their chicks. This is the last visit for the season, before the sea ice is too unstable for vehicles.

IMG_0588We park the Haggs 500m away, strap on our ice spikes, and walk between towering blue ice cliffs to reach the penguins.

And there is one of the most beautiful sights of my life, accompanied by the melodic sound of thousands of twittering chicks, the soft trumpeting of the adults bouncing off the walls of the blue canyon, and a backdrop of deep Antarctic silence.

And also – rotten ice, penguin shit (that I end up lying in), the frozen bodies of dead chicks, and constant flight surveillance by the skuas that live off the colony. Beauty and reality.

The wind dropped to almost nothing, the sun shone. Us visitors kept our distance, sat or lay quietly, took photos, contemplated, marvelled.

To have had this day…

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Station Life at Mawson

IMG_0468IMG_9125My alarm bleeps at 6am and I open the curtains and peek out. It’s been light for half a day already, which can really wreck the sleep patterns…IMG_9289

I hop up and pad down the hall to the galley to grab a cup of tea. The chef’s already well into her daily routine and breakfast is laid out ready for the early birds. Back to bed for half an hour of tea and writing. Then I tap on Jane’s door and we head to the gym – one of the few ways we can get some aerobic exercise within the limitations of what we can do on station before we’ve been survival-trained and can go on longer walks. Get the heart rate up on the treadmill, cross trainer and bike, while enjoying the outlook across the frozen sea.

Breakfast: serve yourself porridge, bircher muesli, fruit, cereal, toast, IMG_9296and knock up a coffee on the espresso machine. Check out the day’s weather (looking out the big triple glazed windows, or reading the digital notice board). Mornings are generally windy with the katabatic winds coming down from the polar plateau. Catch up on day-old news printouts lying on the tables or flick through one of the communal ipads for something more up to date.

8am – everyone in high-vis gear gets up from the tables and heads to work. Of the 32 people on station, the majority work in trades and they head to the workshop or other locations to do maintenance, repairs, rebuilds and all the other work that keeps the station warm, watered, lit and in touch with the world.

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Jane and I bundle up in down jackets, beanies, big boots and gloves and trudge 100m up the hill to our office in the old aeronomy building – which looks very worn on the outside, but has been fitted out as a new office space inside. We’re temporarily sharing with surveyors Matt and Brad (shown here ready to head outdoors for some carefree surveying). They’re good company, though undoubtedly bemused by some of the conversations as we plot the kids’ books. They’ll be heading back to Davis in a couple of days, leaving us with the aeronomy building to ourselves.

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10am the bell goes for smoko –hot meal with soup, bread and other warming and solid mid-morning foods, important for those working outside in the cold, very bad for those of us sitting down all day.

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Another two hours of work before lunch – on offer are lots of salady type dishes, bread for sandwiches, and leftovers that you can heat up, cold meats and the like. Then back to work, until knock-off time at 4ish. Jane and I generally go a bit longer. 5ish there’s a bit of bar activity with home brew, or a good time for a quick stroll.

Six is dinner time – fantastic hearty delicious meal with plenty of meat and IMG_9316vego options and outrageous desserts. The food isreally, really great. Plus the Naughty Corner is on standby and fully stocked for anyone feeling faint from hunger.IMG_9155

Evenings – hanging out in the common areas – the bar, the pool table, armchairs by the big windows looking out at this incredible landscape all around us. Daylight is long and winds tend to drop, so evenings are beautiful for walking around the rocks of Horseshoe Harbour. There’s often a movie in the cinema room, a game of pool to be had, cards, board games or darts to be played, lazy chatting to be done.

Saturday is a half day and everyone pitches in for station duties in the afternoon. Sunday is the chef’s day off, known as Catch and Kill – you fend for yourself from leftovers, sleep in, and take it easy.

Sometime around 11pm the sun sets… and rises again a few hours later, and the cycle repeats.

But now, the lunch bell has just gone… best be off.

 

 

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