should be landing in about thirty minutes.’ The captain interrupted her daydreaming. ‘The weather conditions look good, it should be a straightforward approach, but you should change into your survival clothing now. It will probably take you a while.’
Sophie had collected her red kitbag just prior to boarding the plane in Hobart. It contained the multiple layers she needed to wear to keep warm in the polar conditions. She’d had a brief lesson in getting dressed the previous day and she just hoped she remembered the order.
She returned to the cabin, pulled the bag out of the overhead locker and dumped the contents on her seat. She could feel the plane start its descent as she stripped off her shoes, sweatpants and jumper and pulled on thermal underwear before replacing the other layers. She stepped into her red waterproof pants, which were insulated with a down filling, making them rather cumbersome. She stuffed her shoes into the kitbag and then sat down to wrestle with the bulky insulated snow boots complete with thick rubber soles. She had some difficulty getting her feet into the boots—the puffy pants made bending awkward—but eventually she was able to lace up the white boots, which had the rather odd nickname of ‘bunny boots’. She slipped her arms into the padded jacket and tugged a neck warmer over her head but decided the beanie and gloves could wait. She gathered her hair in one hand and tucked it inside her jacket, where it hung down between her shoulder blades.
By the time she’d finished and returned to her seat she could see through the window that the vast expanse of ocean was giving way to an equally vast expanse of ice and snow in the distance. She searched the horizon for signs of life, for buildings or communication towers, something, anything, to indicate that the icy plateau was inhabited. She could see miles and miles of ice, snow and ocean and eventually a few small buildings, which looked no bigger than shipping containers cobbled together, came into view. That would be the airstrip.
She knew not to expect to see a traditional tarred runway but she was nervous. She could see nothing that remotely resembled a landing strip. She knew from the mandatory flight briefing she’d had the previous day that the plane would land on a specially built pack-ice runway three kilometres long, but that didn’t appease her nerves at all. She couldn’t fathom how something as big and heavy as this plane could land safely on a runway made of ice. The flight briefing had covered information on the flight and the runway, as well as several topics on safety and survival in the Antarctic, but that didn’t stop her from imagining the plane skidding out of control off the edge of the slippery landing strip.
She decided ignorance was bliss and turned away from the window, choosing not to watch as the plane approached the runway. She zipped up her jacket and dug her sunglasses out of her bag.
Standing at the top of the stairs, with the landing safely completed, the chill of the Antarctic autumn day took her by surprise. It was only minus seven degrees Celsius and the sun was shining, but the briskness of the wind on her face after the relative warmth of the plane was unexpected. She tugged her neck warmer up to cover the bottom half of her face and considered donning her beanie but opted just to pull the hood of her jacket over her head before she slipped her sunglasses over her eyes and made her way down the aircraft stairs.
In contrast to the relative silence on the plane, the airstrip was a hive of activity. She couldn’t remember who she was supposed to look for and even if she could she doubted she’d find them. Everyone looked identical. They were all bundled up in matching government-issue red jackets, balaclavas or face masks and sunglasses as they went about their duties, making it impossible to recognise anyone.
The fluttering in her stomach, which she’d convinced herself was excitement, suddenly intensified as anticipation gave way to nervousness. Was she going to be able to handle this? All of a sudden living and working in this extraordinary environment with a group of strangers didn’t seem quite so exotic and exhilarating.
But she remembered her promise to Luke and straightened her shoulders. She could do this. She would do it. And she’d return home stronger and surer and ready to get on with her life.
‘Doc?’ A thick-set man had separated himself from the bustle and was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He stuck out a hand and Sophie shook it, rather awkwardly due to the thick gloves they both wore, as she took in what little she could see of him.
He was a few inches taller than her and wasn’t wearing any head protection—no hat, no balaclava—just sunglasses. He was a big man but appeared to be muscular rather than fat and had hair that hung to his shoulders in thick blond ringlets. His nose was slightly hooked and his jaw was covered in a scruffy blond beard. His eyes were hidden but a cheeky smile lit up his face.
‘I’m Alex, the FTO.’
From her previous dealings and background reading Sophie already thought of Antarctica as the land of acronyms but she was struggling to keep track of them all and couldn’t remember what this one meant. She looked blankly at him until he qualified it for her.
‘The field training officer.’
‘Oh, right. It’s nice to meet you.’
‘I’ll be driving you back to Carey Station but you’ve got some time to kill first. I have to get the cargo squared away to take back with us.’
Sophie was surprised by Alex’s strong Australian accent—a Queensland twang, she thought—and she realised she had expected to hear foreign accents, the kind of thing that happened when you travelled to the ski fields and the lift operators and ski instructors had European accents, even though the ski fields were in Australia. She’d been fooled by the surroundings into thinking she was in a foreign land—and she was—but this part of it was being run by Australians. It was obviously going to take her some time to adjust and she had another nervous moment as she realised that it was very likely that nothing would be as she’d expected.
‘What do I need to do with my bags?’ she asked, as she saw them being unloaded from the cargo hold. She’d been allowed three bags with a combined weight of fifty-five kilograms and, having no real concept of what she might actually need but knowing it would be impossible to get anything she’d forgotten, she’d used every ounce of her allowance. In addition to her own luggage she’d also been given the survival kit, which she had hauled down the airplane steps along with her carry-on luggage. Even though she was now wearing most of the contents of the bag, it was still bulky and she hadn’t thought about the logistics of getting all her bags from the plane across the ice and snow to the buildings and to her transport. She had no idea what the procedure was.
‘Is that them?’ Alex pointed at her cases. Sophie nodded. ‘Just the three?’ She nodded again. ‘I’ll take care of it,’ he offered. ‘Give me your survival bag as well. I’ll stow them in the Hägglund and I’ll meet you inside the terminal when I’m done.’
Sophie didn’t argue as Alex took her survival kit and grabbed the first of her cases. She was relieved not to have to cart her heavy bags while negotiating the icy conditions.
She could see the over-snow vehicle parked a few metres from the plane. The Hägglund was an odd-looking machine and it reminded her of a childish drawing of a car crossed with a mini-tank. It looked like a box with windows set atop caterpillar treads, which Sophie knew would enable it to traverse the ice. Both the cabin and its attached trailer were square and boxy and painted bright red. Alex hoisted her bags into the attached trailer while Sophie headed for the building that he had indicated. It was difficult to walk in the cumbersome clothing, especially the heavily insulated bunny boots, and her progress felt slow and awkward.
When she finally reached the ‘terminal’ it turned out to be a rather makeshift building constructed out of several shipping containers, just as
