Which is Colder? Pole or McMurdo?

Yesterday, in McMurdo, I risked my life far more than I ever did at Pole no matter the temperature.

How?

I went outside.

I’m a lightweight. Literally. I do not weigh enough for these winds. Condition 2 had been called in town, and as usual to those of us up the hill at the Haz Yard, we were experiencing an unacknowledged Condition 1. Easily.

And of course, the Spill Truck had a flat tire. All day. So the easy commute of hopping in a warmish truck after breakfast and lunch–squeezing in alongside everyone–for the ride up the hill, disappeared. We had to walk. It’s not such a big hill, not terribly steep. On a calm day, no problem.

This is how Antarctica rolls. On the coldest day of Winfly, and almost of all Winter, Of course your warm transportation has a FLAT. That’s just how it is here. Never get complacent about it.

So up we headed.

It is unholy hell when the wind is shrieking down the chute into town from Arrival Heights, bearing snow and volcanic grit right into our faces. Ambient was -30s F (202-low 30s C), but the wind was aggressive, angry even. It buffeted and howled and bellowed and barreled down the hill into us as we struggled up directly into it, through goggles swiftly rendered useless by frozen fog or by the fact that they are framed in a light foam designed to allow the fog of our breath to depart. What that achieves is NOTHING good. Because the cold wind, bearing death and destruction in its tiny wake through the sides, bites and stings and frostbites. Goggles be damned. The only thing they do is prevent the dust, grit and ice crystals from damaging the cornea through your slitted eyes.

I was actually in better shape for the morning commute sans goggles, sporting the narrow slit between lowered hat and pulled up gaiter, limited vision true, but I was following a co-worker’s boots ahead of me. I had full coverage of my face and felt fine, if nearly blind.

After lunch, the goggles were nearly useless, leaving me with a string of pinprick-sized very localized ice cream headaches along my forehead through the top holes. And they fogged up and froze pretty damn quickly too.

The after lunch climb was different. The wind had picked up even more. So much so that I had to stop every 10 steps or so to turn sideways against the wind, brace myself in a semi-crouch, and catch my breath again before I faced back up hill into the wind. I had to PUSH myself against the pummeling wind, bent forward at the waist, stomping hard and deliberately, maintaining conscious control of my legs to prevent them from flying out from beneath me when I lifted them one by one. This was no thoughtless walking or climbing effort, where legs just do what they gotta do, moving forward, one foot at a time. This was I must hold my raised leg, bent knee steady against the wind so I can put it back down again in front of the other foot, into the wind. An approximation of forward progress. And bloody exhausting.

I ducked into the VMF (Vehicle Maintenance Facility) halfway up the hill for a break. (This is a 7-10 minute commute at best, and half way up I needed a REST STOP.) I’d left the Galley about 10+ minutes beforehand. I caught my breath in the warm building.

Then with a growl to myself I pulled my gaiter back up and replaced my newly defrosted goggles back over my eyes, and stomped back outside to continue my commute. Whomp! came the wind again. I navigated my way through the parked vehicles of all stripes and sizes awaiting treatment, using what I could as a windbreak for a while, before emerging out the other side into the wind slaloming down the steep sided road ahead of me. Tunneled by the stacks of milvans and the steep snow banks, the wind struck at me with even more ferocity as I faced the steepest part of the trek. Only a few hundred metres at most remained.

I bent over, I leaned forward, I stamped hard to replace my boots on the road after each step. I staggered up the hill struggling to maintain forward motion against that damn ice bearing wind.I stopped and turned sideways to minimize the wind and breath again, panting with the effort inside my gear. But smiling. Laughing once more at the absolutely ridiculous nature of this place and my life in it. Reveling in the adventure.

And I was noticed in this effort by my boss. I’m sure he was laughing at me as he watched, but he did call a Solid Wastie and say to come get me. I was less than 150m from the building when the loader came up behind me on the road and pulled up along side, driver gesturing for me to climb in the cab. I did. I was blessedly delivered by the great rolling beast to the door of the building.

On my commute home, downhill with the wind at my back, I was sent out the door attached to my co-worker, a young man of more avoir du pois than me. He was instructed, semi jokingly, to keep hold of at least one of my feet should I take off in a gust and start sailing toward the sea ice. I held onto his arm, or he maintained an arm across my shoulders as an anchor as we laughed our entire way down the hill. A knight in filthy Carhartts with a heart of gold.

Yesterday’s ambient temperature in McMurdo was about -40F/C. Easily one of the coldest temperatures reached in an unusually warm winter. With the windchill we reached into the -70s and 80s F (-58 to -64C). At South Pole yesterday their ambient was -76F (-60C) or so. With a few paltry knots of wind.

I’m here to officially declare, as one of the few folks in the world who KNOWS what cold is and does in the extreme lows, that WINDCHILL trumps AMBIENT any day. Hands down, no contest, McMurdo is colder then than Pole. Pole’s cold is subtle, it almost snuggles up to you, sneaking in layer by insidious layer until it is slowly made evident to you that you may die of it. But oh so gently. Peacefully, even.

McMurdo is a brutal violent attack, rendering you cold in seconds, battering at your defenses and stealing into every weakness it finds. It is a mugger, a motherfucker, and it wants you DEAD NOW. Then it will fling your lifeless frozen corpse into a crevasse and stomp all over you. Gleefully.

It’s all about the wind. McMurdo is all about the wind. So, when I say it’s colder at McMurdo, it means I’ve got colder faster scarier at McMurdo because of the wind. The deep cold of a Pole winter is still colder, technically, but easier to deal with. It doesn’t just show up without warning with a sledgehammer and beat you with it.

I am no longer that smug Polie who viewed her McMurdo friends’ exclamation pointed news of “-68F with windchill!!!” as illegitimate in relation to my then -93F (-69C) AMBIENT at Pole. Yup, I got the numbers trump. But in the kick your ass trump, McMurdo wins it every time in Winter.

But when the wind drops? Innocence reigns here, and Pole wins like Secretariat in the cold stakes. Year. Round.