Part 2

Steeling himself for the cold that awaited him outside, Mark placed his hand against the aluminum door that sealed his steel tube from the eternal ice that he lived in. Nearly twenty-five years ago a group of scientists had spent an entire Greenlandic summer setting up one of the most remote research stations on earth in the northeast Greenland national park. Setting up what looked like an engorged metal oil barrel against a snow drift, they had created the habitat for a single person that was to man this station.

Each year, the raffle was drawn back at the university, and one geography student was “selected” to receive the “privilege” of participating in this project. Basically, that meant that the student spent four weeks being coached on how to maintain and survive in the station, and was then sent off to the town of Ittoqqortoormiit, from where he had to make his way across the permafrost to the station. Before leaving, he was given an ancient Garmin handheld ETrex GPS and a run-down map of the Northeast Greenland National Park. Everything else he would require for the next twelve months, Mark had been told, was to be found at the station.

And so he had arrived in Ittoqqortoormiit and bought a small Piper J3 Cub Skiplane off one of the locals for a few hundred dollars in order to facilitate his transportation to the station. Stuffing two barrels of fuel into the back, he had managed to use the handheld GPS to find the tiny shining blue tent next to which a red flag had been raised that demarcated the station. For hours and hours he had been puttering over what seemed like a single white mass, without a ridge or crest, before finally in the distance a tiny dark disruption on the horizon came into sight. Several times along that flight he was startled by snow crunching under his skis, indicating that once again the constantly rising terrain had crept up on him without him noticing due to its featurelessness. One more hour had passed before the tiny speck had grown enough for him to distinguish it as the “toilet” tent and red flag that he had been told would indicate his arrival at the station. After he had circled the tent several times, he decided where he would set down the skiplane. What had appeared to be a clean sheet of ice from above turned out to be broken by ridges and crevasses, making it treacherous terrain for any pilot to land on. But, after multiple circuits, he had found what he assumed to be the most stable, even stretch of ice he was going to find within walking distance of the station, and decided to attempt the landing there.

Decades ago, the first scientists to arrive in the North Greenland National park area had not only declared the vast desert of ice a National Park, but also established a station for science to observe the happenings there. Although initially the location appeared random, the station was placed on a plateau of ice that rose above the snowy fields below. Most of the landscape seemed like endless, flat, featureless snow undulating into infinity, but was in fact lined with dangerous crevasses and patches of soft, feathery snow that one could easily be trapped in. For miles, the patch that the station had been established on was the safest one could find.

Originally, a large, blue aluminum tube had been utilized as the station, providing room for two people in bunk beds along one wall and a table along the other. Fixed with lines from which tiny red flags flew, it had resisted the first summer’s cold and harsh winds. But, as winter came, and the inhabitants became more and more confined to the station, a second small tube was added to the side, containing a kitchen. As they had to power the station through the months of darkness ahead, a windmill was erected a few feet from the station, allowing them to produce electricity for the winter months.

Over the years, the cold winds, the ice and the sunlight took their toll on the station. By the time Mark arrived, the original habitat had long since been swallowed by the snow, and was only to be reached via a tunnel that had been dug into the snow by previous inhabitants. Each year, the unforgiving weather added a new layer of snow onto the station, and the constant settling of snow and ice layers seemed to give the tunnel its own voice, eternally groaning and creaking. Each time Mark passed through the tunnel, returning home after his day’s work in the ice, he was struck again by the eerie beauty of the ice, with the newest layers closest to the mouth of the tunnel being powdery and opaque, turning more and more blue and shimmering as one progressed deeper towards the dented aluminum tube that was his living space, sagging under the weight of several meters of snow and ice. Although this tunnel made the main station almost impossible to spot from above, it protected the station from the glaring sun, hanging like an orange ball of flames low in the sky, and provided shelter from the endlessly howling winds. Still, there was a certain feeling of uncertainty for Mark when he stepped into what he considered the bowels of the very land that was his unsurmountable foe for the year he was forced to spend there.

Each and every morning at precisely six o’clock he stepped out of the habitat for the first time of the day and walked along the eternal twilight of the ice tunnel that separated him from the barren white landscape that awaited him above. Stretching, he would stand in the mouth of the tunnel, turning slowly to see if what appeared to be an unbroken stretch of snow that lasted from one end of the horizon to the other had changed overnight. For the first few weeks, he had not yet been able to discern the subtle changes that affected the icy white surface, and all he could see was an ocean of snow, blowing infinite veils of white powdery dust from its immaculate surface. Then, he began noticing that snow drifts changed their position overnight, that thin lines that could easily be mistaken for breaks in the horizon or tiny tricks that his eyes played him where actually crevasses, newly formed gaps in the ice that often went so far down that it was impossible to see the bottom.

So, after taking a deep breath, as usual, he pushed open the heavy door to his habitat once again this morning, shielding his face from the cold draft of air that entered once he had forced open the door, compressing the small mounds of snow that the wind had driven down his tunnel and against his door. Each day, the light that was reflected by the ice walls of his tunnel turned a slightly more tinted orange, and each day he knew that the half year of darkness that was winter was inching closer. Stepping through the crunching snow, he sunk ever deeper into the ever softer snow until he stood in the knee deep snow at the mouth of the tunnel. Turning his head lazily, he squinted against the sun that was glittering off the surface of the snow as if Mark was trying to peer into a pool filled with myriads of tiny glittering diamonds. Today, there was no change. A few trails of blowing snow snaked across the frozen landscape, indicating that there was some wind. The creaking windmill that was just above the tunnel entrance was confirming this noisily. To the left, the blue tent that was the shelter above his “toilet”, a ditch in the snow that had been dug so long ago it had long since turned into a deep hole filled with waste, was flapping silently in the wind. To his right stood the Piper Cub that he trusted on carrying him back out, its faded yellow fuselage stretching its nose towards the sky, the jet black paint filling the lightning bolt that adorned its side beginning to crack under the constant sun. Right next to it he had tied down his supplies. It never rained in the high north, with any possible precipitation being snow, and he was so far from any form of settlement that he did not have to fear any human thieves. Throughout the time that he had inhabited the station, not a single animal had ever come near enough for him to spot it. Not even Polar Bears went this far out, so there was no threat to his supplies, and instead of constructing a shelter for those or even using up precious space in his tiny habitat, he had decided to tie them down with a few robust fishing lines and herrings, making sure that the wind could not get to them, and then just grabbed whatever he required. Using the Fuel Barrels to stabilize the mound of supplies had worked well until recently, when he began to empty the last few barrels. Somewhere, dug into the snow behind the habitat, there was a small diesel generator, but he had not used it a single time since his arrival. Instead, power had been provided by the windmill above that turned constantly day and night, creating just enough current to keep him warm and operate the few essentials that the inside of the station was tightly packed with: A small electric stove with a single hotplate, a rickety old satellite TV and a handheld radio. Only a single power outlet provided charge to his “personal devices”. Not that he needed much of his electricity; quite the contrary. All he had to charge was his satellite phone, as no other form of cellphone was viable out here, and he had watched all of his Netflix downloads in the first week he had spent on the station.

But today was a special day, and so he laboriously began to make his way through the snow to the small dugout that was his equipment shed. Already he regretted his choice to not bring his snowshoes with him. Even short walks in the deep snow were strenuous, not to say treacherous: If he happened to sink in too deep, maybe even break a leg under the weight of the snow then pushing on his limbs, the first relief would arrive in about seven or eight months’ time – and the likelihood of his survival until then, he noted drily, was not exactly exorbitant. Still, it was too late for him to turn back now, so he ploughed on, grunting tiny clouds into the sizzling cold that made the air haze around him and burned at his nose and ears, his cheeks growing red patches. Since he had arrived, he noted, he had not smelt a single thing. The constant biting cold air had burned away at the receptors in his nose, giving him a chronic cold, with his nose eternally running. On cold days, the snot would freeze before he even had a chance to wipe it off again. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he realized: It was a wonder he even managed to get water fluid again up here. Everything else froze within seconds. He remembered a grainy YouTube Video he had seen a while back of two teenagers in Greenland pouring antifreeze out of the bottle. It froze to a giant antifreeze icicle, hanging in the air from the bottle, never even hitting the ground. At least the fuel he had bought was cold resistant and had not frozen up yet. Still, he had almost depleted his reserve. There was just enough for him to fill his Piper one last time and make the return trip to Ittoqqortoormiit to buy new fuel and new supplies. Cautiously, he shielded his eyes with is arm as he peeked at the sun. Hanging low, the giant orange ball was ticking off the time he had left to complete his supply flight. With no lights on the Piper, once darkness came, he would be forced to remain on the ground for the next half year. At least his food never went bad. After all, he did not have a deep freezer.

Before he went to bed the day before, he had walked up to the plane, his footprints forming a well-trodden path through the otherwise powdery snow. Before he even attempted to free the door and wings of ice, he attempted to push the propeller. No matter how hard he leaned against the wooden blade that was to pull him away from the station, it would not budge a single millimeter. The small plane’s engine had frozen up. And so he walked around the tiny bulge in the otherwise frozen landscape that indicated the position of his homestead and pulled out what he called a “cart”, which was in effect a small box on skis. On the first of his “carts there was a large machine with big red letters spelling “FrostFighter” peeling off the side. Basically, he was pushing a large electric hairdryer. After making one more return trip down the slippery cave entrance that sheltered his machinery, he drew from it the diesel generator, also on a cart, and tied the two carts together. Then, for the rest of the day, he pushed and pulled the weird train of frostfighting equipment toward the little yellow aircraft that stoically defied the winds that threw ice crystals like flocks of tiny razor blades against it.

Even time seemed frozen in this wasteland, the sun never budging the entire time he pushed and pulled, the wind never changing, flinging ice crystals against his raw cheeks, bloodying his hands, and the snow never moving. Like an orange eye that peered down aggressively, the sun watched as Mark launched his attempts at shoving and pulling the two carts, the skis regularly freezing to the ground if he did not move quickly enough.

After a while, he finally managed to pull the two sleds over to the small yellow aircraft. Hoping that there was still some amount of fuel left in the generator that his predecessors had left, he cranked it several times, sending ice that had accumulated on the starter flinging from the generator. Finally, after the third try, the engine caught, sputtered and sent puffs of dark black smoke across the snowy landscape. Soon, the constant groan of the small two-cylinder engine filled the icy air with sound. Once the Generator had run up accordingly, he connected it to the FrostFighter and connected a pipe supplying the engine with warm air to the airplanes exhaust. Mark hoped that this would be enough to warm up the aircraft so that he could fly out. Stepping back, he crossed his arms, observing his creation at work. With its obnoxious hum, the generator sent out waves of heat haze from its exhaust, powering the FrostFighter with the electrical power it provided. Then, his eyes followed the ancient, yellowing canvas tube that transported the warm air into the small Pipers exhaust, warming the engine from the inside. Already, he could see the frost blossoms on the shining yellow cowling melting, and a small drop of water ran down the side of the engine. Once it fell off the cowling, it froze almost instantly, glinting once in the sun like a drop of solid gold falling, just before it entered the snow, creating an ever so tiny hole in the white ground.

Satisfied, he turned back, walking back down the tunnel and into the eternal semi-darkness of his small tunnel. Stumbling over lumps of ice, he almost fell, cursing. Somehow, he decided, the tunnel had to be lit before winter brought long darkness over him.