a day in the life of a mcmurdo shuttle driver.

0430. my watch alarm goes bleep-bleep-bleep. I reach over and turn it off quickly, lest it disturb my roommates: sarah, the utility technician with huge biceps who fixes furnaces and reads up on combustion systems for fun; and alison, the rail-thin firefighter-turned-bakery-assistant who brings us cookies to derail our diets. they both start work at the much saner hour of 0730 and are still fast asleep. I gulp half a nalgene bottle of water (in 10% relative humidity, you always wake up thirsty), tiptoe down the ladder from my upper bunk, grab my towel and toiletry basket, and head to the restroom shared by the women of our floor. (having never lived in a mixed-gender dorm situation before, I always feel faintly giggly when I see guys on the hall. one of these days I will grow up.)

still half-asleep under the harsh fluorescent lights, I brush my teeth, wash my face and make a half-hearted attempt to do something about my mophead (see extremely flattering photo, left). since my hair is under a bandanna or knitted hat all day, it doesn’t really make sense to invest a lot of time or effort in styling it. I think I've actually started to plan outfits around my hat.

back in my room, I pull on long underwear, a long-sleeved shirt, fleece vest, two pairs of socks, my (pink!) sorel boots that are rated to -40F, a hat, leather work gloves and insulated carhartt overalls. hmmm. it seems I've done this dressing routine before...somewhere in central asia.

0455. I grab my parka, keys, lip balm, sunglasses and water bottle and head downstairs to the galley for breakfast. the hot food line opens at promptly 0500, and I have to be at work by 0520, so I hurriedly grab a couple of pieces of bacon, hash browns, something that's supposed to be scrambled eggs, half a grapefruit, a cup of tea and a glass of juice and wolf it all down while reading the latest New York Times Digest (eight pages of domestic and world news briefs that comes to us by fax daily). but for this small gesture of connection with the outside world, I could, for all intents and purposes, be living on another planet.

0515. I pull on my parka and gloves and go through the double galley doors into the cold. although the sun hasn't set all night, its thin slant of light offers no warmth in the face of a chilling -10-degree polar wind. with my hood up and sunglasses on to protect me from blowing volcanic dust, I cross the gravel street to Building 140, home of the Shuttle Ops office. the night crew is just getting ready to leave after their own 12-hour shift. they've checked the fluid levels on my vehicle and warmed it up, and have even set out my ECW-gear bag and handheld VHF radio. all I need to do is sign for the radio, grab my bag, fill my water bottle and I'm out the door.

0525. my first duty this morning is ice runway shuttle, which means driving back and forth between town and the ice runway on the sea ice every thirty minutes. my van can hold ten passengers ('pax') plus myself. on some runs, I have ten pax -- on others, none. I unchock the tires, climb into the van and turn the dash and handheld radios to Channel 1, the channel on which shuttles communicate with each other and with the office. careful not to cut across the path of a forklift or fuel truck, I pull out and head for the bus stop in the middle of town -- Derelict Junction, better known as DJ. there is already a crowd waiting to be taken out to IceTown -- a motley mix of Air National Guard guys in green flight suits, fuelies with diesel-soaked gloves, and cargo people wearing overalls and parkas like me.

they board my shuttle, some of them greeting me by name. having done this run for a few weeks, I'm starting to piece together who's who -- the air-traffic controllers, the guys that fly the Twin Otter prop planes to the field camps, the power plant technicians. we pull away from DJ at exactly half past and drive slowly through the station, down the hill toward the transition where land meets frozen sea ice.

out here, away from town, I'm allowed to go the astounding speed of 25 miles per hour. the heavy-machinery fleet has already graded the road, taking away most of the bumps and drifts. I'm driving on six feet of frozen-solid seawater. this is rad.

we pass jamesway huts and huge trailers, weddell seals lolling on the ice like giant leeches, and the ubiquitous green flags on bamboo poles until we reach IceTown. I drop everyone off at the galley except for the Guard guys, who need to go out to their plane for a mission to the Pole this morning. they pick up their emergency survival gear (weighing 53 pounds per person) from Hut 18, and we drive to the staging area, where I radio the airfield supervisor for permission to enter the ramp:

'MC1, this is Shuttle Cindy. Copy?'
Go ahead, Shuttle Cindy.
'Permission to approach Skier 92 with crew?'
Yup. You're clear.

0545. I click on my hazard lights and crawl out onto the ramp at the requisite five miles an hour. the ski-equipped LC-130 crouches next to the fuel pits, sucking fuel through a six-inch hose like a mosquito lunching on a meaty thigh. the guys thank me as they file out and head for their plane. as new drivers, we were warned that Guard guys can sometimes be a hassle to deal with -- big egos, small minds -- but I have yet to encounter one that is not polite and cooperative.

0555. I radio the MC1 to let him know I'm leaving the ramp, drive slowly back to the galley, and wait and watch for the plane to take off. it roars by and lifts into the sky, headed south. it'll be back in the afternoon, or sooner if the temperature at the Pole is too cold. it has to be warmer than -50F for the plane to land. in the meantime, I've got more taxi runs to do.

to be continued, probably on a bad-weather day.







oh, and here is a photo of me and Ivan. he's my new boyfriend. he weighs 67,000 pounds when at his 56-passenger capacity.

cute, yeah? like a roach next to a dishwasher.