September 22, 1975: Monday

Had trouble getting 504 started. Took the batteries out of the BFC’s stake-bed and jumpered 504. Went out and hitched up the sled. Had trouble getting down Main Street Hill. At the bottom we coupled up the chain and chugged off across the ice. At one spot the red flags went North and the orange flags went Straight. We took the Orange Route and ended up in rough ice. We got out to check on things and discovered that 504 had two (not one, but two) flat tires. We hobbled back into the garage and Jack fixed it in half an hour. Meanwhile we got gas. They let me off to make sandwiches. I fix six peanut butter and jelly and six baloney. The guy looked at me and said, “You must be one hungry mother.” He wasn’t even Black. The mess cooks were having some dispute with Navy over who should put up more coat hooks. It’s not my Problem.

I get to call Mac Center and say, “Mac Center, this is 504 trying again for Marble Point. Over.”

“Roger, roger, 504.”

Back across the ice to the Dirty Ice. Have trouble getting 504 and the sled up. The snowtrack had to come back, attach itself to the sled on the other side and pull us both back for a clear shot at the ramp. We finally get up and see before us the vast gray sea, McMurdo Sound, stretching far to the North, the sun, small and golden, reflecting off it. The Sound, actual water anyway, is a rarity. And we delighted in its gray green choppy waves, which flashed and sparkled in the saffron sun, like Karen Aufenkamp’s eyes. One penguin, proud and lonely, strolled along the shore, almost like a beach, with the waves lapping onto the ice, the sun obliquely casting its enormous penguin shadow. It was time for a Kodak stop. The snowtrack went on to the other side of the Dirty Ice to find a safe way. There they encountered a flock of penguins. We had trouble getting 504 over a hump. The birds wandered over to see what was happening and laugh at us dumb humans. When you chase a penguin, he’ll get down on his belly and push himself along by his feet and paddle with his wings. Another Kodak break among the penguins. A seal surfaced and he’s a tired old fellow, yawning and shying from the camera. But he obliges me with a picture, a sausage with two black eyes. On across the ice. It is clear now what exactly Mount Debrushka is. And the pictures and the maps agree. She is a single peak, for certain, standing proudly at the front.

Halfway through New Harbour the heater top falls onto the batteries and we have a temporary short, with heaps of sparks and hissing sounds. Almost woke me up. The sky that night was a color I’ll never forget, a royal navy blue, so deep and dark, but not purple, an expanse of depth matched only by Debbie’s eyes.

We leave the sled at the edge of the ice and chug on over to the Hut at Marble Point. Sam didn’t want to go over the tide cracks. We thought about getting a post and padlock so no one would rip off the sled. Pitch tents, eat lerps, and go to bed.