September 18, 1975: Thursday

I awake at 5:00 a.m. (more or less). The weather outside is good. Mount Discovery and New Harbour are very close and the dark brown storm cloud is over Marble Point, receding quickly. We go to the BFC. Sam is already there. He had a good night’s sleep. I didn’t. David Wininger is alive and in the Air Force, shaking hands on “R” Street at UNL, which is now somewhere in New Zealand. I get letters coming out of my ears. Weird dreams.

The Kiwi vehicle shows up about 6:30. We chase it around awhile, then head out for the ice, Cal at the helm.

The pick-up needs speed to get through the drifts. But speed kills, you know, besides bouncing all the gear out of the back. Then we get on thin, soft, crusty snow and the pick-up breaks right through.

We get out. Dig it out. Go back and find a lost crack board. And press on. Sam, driving like a man possessed. He has an Italian wife (like Andria) and three kids (12, 10, 8). Cal, me, and Dave out on foot finding safe places. We give up when we get ol’ 590 buried to the axles. I guess I didn’t wear the right shirt. Should have worn 51 again.

We turn around and head for home. Decide to take 504, a trackmaster (the Bio-People’s) and a sled, which is this nifty little red contraption. We unload, load, and pack for leaving tomorrow. So long Zig-zag.

Dr. Nartsiss asks about my education. He has seen Nicholas and Alexandra. He didn’t like it. Too sympathetic towards the Tsar.

Put in a real long day today. But the sunset was worth it.

Traveling towards the Dirty Ice this morning it became clear that Mount Debrushka is a one spired summit, not the twin peaked mountain I had hoped. But this does not lessen the beauty, does not diminish the glory. For the mountain is a tribute to beauty. And glory. And half of infinity is still infinity.

The sunset from the side of Observation Hill was like a Nebraska sunrise across the Nemaha Valley.

In fiery splendor of orange and gold, the sun slid behind the Royal Society mountains, above the Blue Glacier, reflecting down cascades of fire and smoldering orange. The sea fog, catching this splendor, returned the dying light with a whispered, pastel flame. The clouds, once gray and blue, now shone in purple majesty, robed in tones of soft, soft pink, reflecting down to a small thin layer of wispy clouds that stood within the cup of the mountains to receive their orange hue of twice reflected light.

Three seals on the endless expanse of white-blue sea ice enjoyed the splendor of their universe.