Ten Footsteps

Welcome back.

The Condition One storm that gave us a snow day, violent as it was, didn't last the morning, and we went back to work after lunch. Our construction site was buried under five feet of snow, so we spent the afternoon digging out. The snow was like styrofoam, light as a feather. It broke off in chunks about two feet wide. You can't make snowballs here, the snow is as dry as sand, but "snow-chunks" are easy. Just break off a piece the size of a door, and let it fly! By 3:00 PM we'd descended into an all-out snow fight. I took a pretty good whack to the forehead when someone switched allegiances, but it was the most fun I've had on the job.

George Vince sailed with Robert Scott on the Discovery Expedition. He fell through the ice and disappeared near Scott's Hut in 1902. His cross (erected in 1904) was taken down and repaired two months ago, but its back now where it belongs. Another one, Scott's Cross, had to be replaced years ago after a storm blew the original away. The repairs to Vince's Cross should keep it safe for now.

Tyler Perot drew the picture of Hut Point at the top of this page. The long shadow reaching out from Vince's cross inspired me. . .

TEN FOOTSTEPS

And near McMurdo Station, just past Arrival Heights,
in view, the frozen fractures of Winter Quarters Bay,
there sits a lonely cabin ‘neath the lonely Southern Lights,
its single lonely occupant, a ghost from yesterday.



One hundred weary dreamers moving darkly through a town
two thousand weary miles from a green New Zealand coast.
Ten million weary pinpoints draped above McMurdo Sound,
above our lonely cabin and its one forgotten ghost.

A lake of liquid fire seethes four thousand meters high.
Erebus The Dangerous, its sides no longer glow.
Molten earth, the island's birth in warmer days gone by
no longer threatens frozen little MacTown down below.

Instead, an icy grip holds fast the earth and sea and sky;
a dead, enchanted isle in the shadow of the Pole.
When asked, the ones who live there never really tell you why.
It's said some search for answers, or for freedom, or a soul.

And near McMurdo Station, just past Arrival Heights,
in view, the frozen fractures of Winter Quarters Bay,
there sits a lonely cabin ‘neath the lonely Southern Lights,
its single, lonely occupant - a ghost from yesterday. . .



ONE tired, weary sailor waiting for his ship’s return
TWO take him back to latitudes of warmth and light and rain.
THREE thousand useless platitudes of how a ghost might yearn
FOUR life and love and happiness and all that we profane.
FIVE fingers reaching through the walls embrace the sulphur glow.
SIX months of twilight darkness softened by the station lights.
SEVEN Seas surrounding. Strange fishes swim below
that George Vince EIGHT before that fatal walk along the Heights.
NINE times he since has wandered from the confines of his hut,
TEN steps at most before retreating back into the gloom.
No ship on the horizon, the Ross Sea frozen shut,
he waits for the Discovery... She’ll break the pack ice soon...

And while he waits he’ll watch the weary workers in the town,
and glimpse beyond McMurdo, shapes on Observation Hill.
If only he could make the hike and have a look around
he’d soon discover there's no need to guard the cabin still.

For Robert Falcon Scott will never sail into the Sound.
A cross stands in his honor, return long overdue.
Atop Ob Hill the wine would spill, reunion could be found. . .
for Robert Scott’s been waiting there for him - with all the crew.

Just near McMurdo Station, just past Arrival Heights,
in view, the frozen fractures of Winter Quarters Bay,
there sits a lonely cabin ‘neath the silent Southern Lights,
its single, lonely occupant. . . a ghost from yesterday.


Keith Martin took this picture of me standing by Scott's Cross.

Written on the winter solstice, 2005

UNITED STATES ANTARCTIC PROGRAM

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