eggs, bacon, kumera home fries
pulled pork, cornmeal biscuits, coleslaw
turkey breast braised in red mole, brown rice, zucchini
—————-
The Big Base Heavy-Shop is a wonderland of giant snow going machinery and all the equipment needed to fix them. A penchant for diesel and over sized wrenches leaves me absolutely enchanted as I follow my guide through the maze of hydraulic lifts, tool carts and half assembled caterpillar tracks. I have three good friends at the Big Base who truly appreciate my state of isolation at The Oasis and try to show me a good time when I come to visit. Two of them are Heavy-Shop (heavy equipment) mechanics, ergo my personal after-hours tour of their workplace and, the real prize- an invitation to join them on their annual trip to Cape Evans. As previously mentioned, trips of the leisurely sort are rare, enough so that even the motley crew of mechanics are a little giddy as we walk up to the shop at 5:30 on Sunday night. The annual staff photo must be taken, and like bearded, greasy, overall-clad children, the denizens of the Heavy-Shop clamber around the Cat Challenger for their spot in the picture. My friend drives, and I get the ever-coveted shotgun in one of the Tucker Sno-Cats. We manage to cram four more people in the back and the convoy of eight, tracked vehicles (caterpillar tracks, like a tank, excellent on snow/ice) heads down the hill and out of town. For how slow the Tucker goes, it makes a ridiculous amount of noise. Shaking and lurching, each track takes hold of the compacted snow road, tossing up a continuous volley of ice and snow which bounces like popcorn and collects on the hood of our vehicle. It’s been warm, and where the snow hasn’t been compacted, on either side of the roadway blue sea ice glows through, a reminder that we are indeed trekking across an ocean. If everything weren’t frozen solid, Cape Evans would be a point of land protruding into the water up the coastline NNW of the Big Base. In its present solid state, aside from a few dark islands of rock, the sprawling white ocean before us is nearly indistinguishable from land. It is on this canvas, appearing like ink spots, that first see the penguins. Having adjusted to the lack of life on the Antarctic landscape, the dependable stillness of rocks and ice, I feel almost confused to espy the movement of living things on the horizon. A penguin sighting is quite rare in our immediate part of the continent and despite the waddle of four looking like little more than pin pricks in the distance, our convoy comes to a shaking, lurching halt and we descend the vehicles to get a better view of our aviary counterparts. Standing by the side of the road it’s cold, but the reprieve from vibrating tracks and a stretch of the legs feels good. Some pictures are taken, a few icy snow balls are tossed and it’s back to the trucks. The faster vehicles at the front of the pack have already taken off in a cloud of ice when it becomes apparent that we have been spotted. Thanks to strict preservationist rules, the birds approach us more as a curiosity than a threat. Where most animals would turn tail and run, the four dapper Adelie penguins decide to come in close for further inspection. The vehicles and their promised warmth are forgotten as we turn once again from the road. In complete silence with cameras poised we hold our collective breath. Time stands still. On our knees, in the middle of a frozen ocean, face to face with four flightless birds.
they don't eat penguins. 