Koch Foundation

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      <div class="rich-text"><p><i>Science Editor Caitlin Saks and Digital Associate Producer Arlo Perez are in Antarctica for the next month reporting about science research in Antarctica as a part of NOVA’s</i> “Polar Extremes”<i> project, which is funded by the National Science Foundation. Joining them is Zac Fink, field director and director of photography. Caitlin is writing home frequently and tweeting about her adventures (@caitlin_saks)—here’s her first dispatch:</i></p><p>Our 12-hour international flight from San Francisco to Auckland was on a packed-to-capacity wide body plane. I slept fairly well—maybe about six interrupted hours spread out over the whole flight. By the end, I couldn’t feel my toes, my curly hair was straight, and <a href="https://www.scientificamerican.com/podcast/episode/a-litmus-test-for-bad-breath/">my breath smelled</a> like something from another planet. But I was decently well rested for our 5:30 a.m. arrival in New Zealand.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>We gathered all 600+ pounds of gear, made our way through customs, re-checked all 600+ pounds to Christchurch, and then proceeded directly to <a href="/pages/articles/coffee-may-extend-your-lifebut-theres-a-but/">caffeine</a>. Zac, Arlo, and I took an immediate liking to New Zealand because there is a coffee shop every 20 feet. In case they don’t have it at <a href="https://www.nsf.gov/geo/opp/support/mcmurdo.jsp">McMurdo Station</a>—the United States Antarctic research center to which we’re headed—Zac and Arlo have been collecting Sugar In The Raw® for me at every coffee shop. Now I have sugar spilling out of every pocket of my backpack.</p><p>We were awake for the flight to Christchurch and used that time to get a bit of footage, and to start playing with the Go Pros that we brought along. When we landed, we were greeted at baggage claim by Elaine Hood, our Antarctic “implementer,” who has been holding my hand through the entire planning process. She came with at least three other people from the Christchurch office of the <a href="https://www.usap.gov/">United States Antarctic Program</a> (USAP), three big carts, and a big truck. After lugging equipment around for I-can’t-count-how-many-hours, the small army of helpers was delightful.</p><p>By this point we had been <a href="https://www.livescience.com/59369-science-jet-lag-surprising-findings.html">traveling for 24 hours</a>. I couldn’t have possibly done that math at the time, but I’m writing this after having had a chance to sleep. From the Christchurch airport, we walked to the USAP Clothing Distribution Center, right next to the airport. It’s called the CDC, but it’s not the Centers for Disease Control.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>This place was amazing. It is like the largest, most organized closet in the world. Massive racks run the length of one room with every kind of cold weather gear you can imagine. Jackets for all variety of cold weather activity, from deep-field science work to construction in McMurdo.</p>
            <figure class="richtext-image left"><img alt="image001.jpg" class="richtext-image left" height="666" width="500"
            src="/wgbh/nova/media/images/image001.width-500.jpg"/><figcaption><p>NOVA science editor Caitlin Saks dons her United States Antarctic Program jacket and shows off her name tag.</p><div class="credit"><p></p></div></figcaption>
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            <p>We came a day early—arriving on a Friday, a workday—so that we could get most of our camera gear on a pallet for the flight to McMurdo while people were still in the office. But this had the added benefit of giving us a few hours to have free run of the place. Nathan “Haggis” Harkness, who runs the operations, gave us a tour. I felt like a kid in a candy shop. Arlo and I tried on big jackets and boots. We got to try on these massive gloves that have furry backs to wipe your nose (Haggis promised they were very clean now). And this wasn’t even all of the gear. In the next warehouse room over, row after row after row of boxes (think <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark</i>) contained even more gear waiting in reserve for when the “closet” needed restocking. All of this gear will come back to the CDC at the end of the season. Haggis said it takes them FOUR MONTHS to do all the laundry.</p><p>Everyone at CDC was wonderfully accommodating. The ground-based support is run by New Zealand—this is part of the <a href="https://www.nsf.gov/geo/opp/antarct/anttrty.jsp">international cooperation agreement</a> for research in Antarctica. New Zealand runs the ground operations, and the U.S. provides air support for getting to the ice.</p><p></p>
            <figure class="richtext-image full-width"><img alt="image002.jpg" class="richtext-image full-width" height="600" width="800"
            src="/wgbh/nova/media/images/image002.width-800.jpg"/><figcaption><p>NOVA producer Arlo Perez dons his United States Antarctic Program jacket and shows off his name tag.</p><div class="credit"><p></p></div></figcaption>
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            <p></p><p>After romping around the CDC for three hours (there was a coffee break in there, too, of course), we went across the street to the hotel and had some much-needed down time. Iron-Man-Arlo went for a run. I peeled off all my clothes, brushed my teeth three times, and texted my husband to let him know I was alive and well.</p><p>Then, about an hour later, Elaine picked us up to take us into Christchurch for dinner. We met up with another artist traveling to the ice—Caitlin Scarano, a poet, who has a really wonderful first name. Also joining us were Mike Lucibella, in the communications office, and Kelly Swanson, the recreations director. Over Kiwi Thai food, they told us tales from the ice. One of the group warned that the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgZa9oZDN5g">24 hours of daylight</a> will make us stupid—people lose the ability to recall words. I’m not sure how scientifically accurate that assertion is. Kelly told us what sorts of recreational activities she plans—like Halloween, which was just rescheduled for early November. “You can do that?” I asked. “We can do anything down there,” she replied.</p><p>I was so exhausted by this point that I can’t recall all the wonders that we heard over dinner. I had this feeling of information overload in my brain. So many new, interesting ideas—they couldn’t all fit in my cranium! I have a hunch that I might have to get used to that feeling…the next month is going to be filled with similarly mind-warping encounters. Hopefully I won’t actually forget how to use words to describe them.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>After dinner, Elaine gave a quick tour of downtown Christchurch, which was destroyed during a <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/earthquakes-strike-new-zealand/2011/06/13/AGyD6jTH_gallery.html?utm_term=.2102dd0b7996">6.2 earthquake</a> that struck in 2011. It is still a city in recovery, but has a vibrant street scene with lots of interesting arts installations. The cathedral in the center of town still sits in ruins—which is kind of a shock to see in person. Seven years later, in this developed nation, in the center of town, this beautiful building is still in shambles.</p><p>After that, it was bedtime. It took about 20 seconds from when my head hit the pillow to fall asleep. Today we have some time to adjust and digest everything we learned yesterday, and to sort out our plan for the next couple days. Most importantly, we are going to take a bit of time to take care of ourselves ahead of what is surely going to be quite a ride.</p></div>
  



<p>Members of the NOVA team are headed to Antarctica to report on science research at the bottom of the Earth. Here&#x27;s their first dispatch.</p>

Dispatches from Antarctica: Part 1





  
      <div class="rich-text"><p><i>October 22, 2018 (written October 27):</i></p><p>Nothing could have prepared me for the moment the C-17 door opened into the Antarctic winds. It had been warm and toasty where we sat inside the plane&#x27;s cargo hold. Then the aircraft came to a stop, the door creaked open, and Antarctic air blasted in. You could <i>see</i> it diffusing from the doorway through the entire cargo hold. In a matter of seconds, the whole space plummeted to minus 10 Celsius (14 degrees Fahrenheit). Every breath was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJKwMT1uz-c">immediately visible</a>.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>My first glimpse of the continent was out the back door of the plane. Past the stacks of <a href="https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/article/dispatches-antarctica-part-2/">gear and equipment</a>, I could see a white expanse with a purple mountain painted in the backdrop. It did not look real. The military gear framing the surreal landscape looked like something out of a science fiction film.</p><p></p>
            <figure class="richtext-image full-width"><img alt="arrival_1_edited.jpg" class="richtext-image full-width" height="450" width="800"
            src="/wgbh/nova/media/images/arrival_1_edited.width-800.jpg"/><figcaption><p>A first glimpse of the continent | Photo credit: Arlo Perez</p><div class="credit"><p></p></div></figcaption>
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            <p></p><p>When we got off the plane, it was windy. The sun was low in the sky, with thin clouds veiling its intensity, illuminating the icy purple-ish mountains that surrounded us—this was the first surprise. I expected to see nothing but white, but instead, I found myself in a far more dynamic, <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/energy-environment/2018/10/22/listen-eerie-song-antarctica-melting/?noredirect=on&amp;utm_term=.49f583e97674">alien terrain</a>. To say it was like a photo would not do it justice, because a photo looks more real. This was like a painting. It was like I was walking through a painting of another planet.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>We boarded a Delta—a monstrous snow vehicle that hearkens back to another era, and that the <a href="https://www.usap.gov/">Antarctic Program</a> seems to use like a bus. We were warned not to turn on the radiator—it would asphyxiate us. And we were asked to buckle up using ancient seat buckle hardware. I sat in the far back, next to the door, and as we lurched into motion and trundled off on the 45-minute drive to <a href="https://www.nsf.gov/geo/opp/support/mcmurdo.jsp">McMurdo Station</a>, snow slowly drifted in through the cracks and covered my leg. The breath of about ten people quickly frosted all the windows, shrouding any view of the outside and adding to the mystique of the place. Not until we reached McMurdo Station would I catch another glimpse of the landscape, but the interior of the vehicle was enough to feast my eyes on. I examined the stickers that decorated the Delta’s interior—stamps left by past visitors, as if to say “I too made it to this furthest end of the Earth.”</p><p>Soon, I would discover just what wonders they found here.</p><p><i>Science Editor Caitlin Saks and Digital Associate Producer Arlo Perez are in Antarctica for the next month reporting about science research in Antarctica as a part of NOVA’s</i> “Polar Extremes”<i> project, which is funded by the National Science Foundation. Joining them is Zac Fink, field director and director of photography. Caitlin is writing home frequently and tweeting about her adventures (@caitlin_saks).</i></p></div>
  

  
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<p>As the C-17 plane door opened, NOVA’s science editor looked upon what looked like a painting of a faraway planet.</p>

Dispatches from Antarctica: A Windy, Alien Terrain





  
      <div class="rich-text"><p><i>October 28, 2018:</i></p><p>At breakfast one morning last week, a scientist who works out on the sea ice told me something startling: “Everyone here fails.”</p><p>This isn’t what I expected.</p><p>It sounds trite, but it is true: <a href="https://www.nsf.gov/geo/opp/support/mcmurdo.jsp">McMurdo</a> really does feel like what I’d imagine an <a href="https://earthobservatory.nasa.gov/images/4420/martian-landscape-antarctica">outpost on Mars</a> to be. But not for the reasons you might think—it’s not because the landscape around me is so spectacularly alien, but rather it is that the personal experience is so far removed from anything I’d known in my ordinary life. It really feels like a whole new world, and I’m having to learn how to operate and <i>be</i> in this new reality.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>It has been exactly one week since Arlo, Zac, and I landed in Antarctica, and it has been among the most personally challenging—and rewarding—weeks of my life. I have been forced to look inward and trust myself, to become self-reliant and also trusting of my team members—two people whom I hardly knew when we set out. I’ve also learned how to light a camp stove, change a spark plug, and drive a snowmobile.</p><p>When you get to McMurdo, your life is turned upside down. It’s impossible to maintain the habits from home that define you. First, there are very immediate and obvious adaptations that must be made. <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/aarontilley/2016/01/19/antarctica-gets-a-cellular-network-for-the-internet-of-things/#792eeb7077a6">Internet is painfully slow</a>, only in limited locations, and smart phones are relegated to being expensive alarm clocks. Every system I have for keeping track of things: to-do lists, names, numbers, maps, calendars, ideas… it all usually goes in my phone. I’ve had to trade that in for a little green notebook that is standard issue to everyone that comes on station. It is affectionately referred to as a “green brain.” You keep it on you at all times and record notes. If you lose it, you panic and start asking around “I’ve lost my brain! Has anyone seen my brain?” To communicate with people, you can’t text them… but you page them. Yes – a pager. For those millennials who don’t know what that is, it’s sort of like how they texted in the 90s. And then, at meal times, people don’t check their phones—they <i>talk</i> to each other, sometimes for hours on end.</p><p></p>
            <figure class="richtext-image full-width"><img alt="NOVA_landscape.jpg" class="richtext-image full-width" height="1000" width="800"
            src="/wgbh/nova/media/images/NOVA_landscape.width-800.jpg"/><figcaption><p></p><div class="credit"><p></p></div></figcaption>
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            <p></p><p>Then there is the matter of <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/science/antarctica-live/video/2013/dec/05/how-to-dress-antarctica-live-video">dressing yourself</a>. Sounds simple, right? Nope. There are gradations of cold that I didn’t know existed: the kind of cold you feel when you are just running from one building to the next—that’s COLD, but tolerable. Then the kind of cold when you are outside for a while, but still on station—that’s FREEZING. Then, there is the kind of cold you feel when you are out on the sea ice, when the winds are blowing—that’s REALLY FREAKIN’ FREEZING. And then… there is inside—and that’s <i>WARM</i>. They’ve invented a whole new category of gear to deal with the really freakin’ freezing zone, but the trouble comes when you need to stop for lunch in the warm zone before heading out to the freakin’ freezing zone—then the warm zone transforms into a SWELTERING zone. I spent the first week on station being either too hot (i.e., drenched in sweat) or too cold, and I mean toes tingling, numb and shivering. Figuring out what outfit will get you through the day comfortably is a challenge.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>But the cold and the lack of internet isn’t why the experience is transformative—that’s just a little disorienting distraction. It is a new routine to be figured out. What is really transformative is that the continent makes the agenda, and you must adapt. The weather is <a href="https://www.newshub.co.nz/home/new-zealand/2018/10/antarctica-storms-strand-scientists-in-new-zealand-delay-significant-work.html">relentlessly unpredictable</a>, and weather dictates everything. In certain conditions, the weather mandates that you can’t even leave the building you are in. The environment is treacherous—laden with hidden dangers like cracks in the sea ice and extreme cold. With mother nature in charge, you are forced to be flexible, and self-reliant. You must learn to live with whatever is thrown at you, to trust yourself in extreme situations, and make the best of it. Adapt on the fly. Re-invent the project as you go. I can’t call home to make a new plan. I have to make the right decision in the moment, and have only my teammates to consult with. My own survival, and our project, is entirely our shoulders.</p><p>Over the past week, I have been learning skills for operating in this extreme environment. Now I know how to pitch a tent if we get stuck in a storm, how to find cracks in sea ice and check if they are safe to cross, how to identify the early signs of hypothermia, how to read the skies for approaching weather, how to use radios to communicate with McMurdo operations, how to work a GPS unit, how to drive a snowmobile… and yes, how to dress myself for the cold. The <a href="https://www.usap.gov/">U.S. Antarctic Program</a> does an admirable job of training those who have never been here to operate safely in the environment. A week’s worth of training has been frustrating because of the delay it means for our project… but satisfying in the confidence that it has inspired for us to be self-sufficient.</p><p>I have been thrust into the same situation as the scientists who come down here for research. Starting two years ago, when I worked with NOVA to assemble an NSF grant proposal for this project, I’ve had to put on the same hat as the scientists—figuratively, and now that I am here, literally. Every step of the way, I am tracing their experience, from planning the logistics to setting up a lab space (more of a camera workshop for us). Though my project is a media project, it still has deliverables, a deadline… a lot to accomplish in little time, and the Antarctic continent apparently does not know how to read my production schedule, for she has her own plans. This is the same experience that the scientists here have—they have goals to accomplish, they are working with finicky, expensive equipment that they’re nervous will not perform. And they, too, are beholden to the whims of the winds.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>I came here as NOVA’s science editor and the producer of a YouTube series, “To learn what it is like to live and work and do science at the bottom of the world.” That’s the tagline. I had planned in meticulous detail how I was going to follow scientists to discover what they are studying, and how they do their work—the process of science. What I didn’t realize was that here, the process of doing science in Antarctica is a highly personal, transformative experience. It is an experience in which you must disconnect from the rest of the world and rely on your own skills and intuition—and on the team that you have brought with you—to accomplish a goal that is quite possibly unattainable... but you will nevertheless make the best of it.</p><p><i>Science Editor Caitlin Saks and Digital Associate Producer Arlo Perez are in Antarctica for the next month reporting about science research in Antarctica as a part of NOVA’s</i> “Polar Extremes” <i>project, which is funded by the National Science Foundation. Joining them is Zac Fink, field director and director of photography. Caitlin is writing home frequently and tweeting about her adventures (@caitlin_saks).</i></p></div>
  



<p>Unpredictable weather and old-school internet create out of the ordinary conditions for living and research.</p>

Dispatches from Antarctica: A New Reality





  
      <div class="rich-text"><p>We’re on a <a href="https://www.boeing.com/defense/c-17-globemaster-iii/">C-17</a> now, heading south. It’s a cavernous airplane and they seated us right in the middle. Pipes and wires and nobs of all sorts line the walls. What is all this stuff? Behind my seat is a brand-new monster snow vehicle. The plane’s cabin—if you can call it a cabin—is loud and it’s hard to talk. And it’s warm. I had always heard these flights are cold. We definitely aren’t cold! Most people are sleeping. A few are reading.</p><p>After our <a href="https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/article/dispatches-antarctica-part-1/">exhilarating first day in Christchurch</a>, we all crashed. The following day, Saturday, was quieter and gave us a chance to recuperate. We went into the city to pick up some final supplies: a water bottle (I lost mine in Auckland), sunglasses for Arlo, and the like. And we wandered around the city. It’s a cool city, but <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/02/22/world/0223-ZEALAND.html">the 2011 Earthquake</a> rendered it a shell of its former self. The cathedral in the center of town is in ruins. Abandoned buildings and empty lots are scattered throughout the city, and construction fencing is ubiquitous. Still, in the cracks left by the earthquake there has grown a quirky and vibrant art scene. What the city has lost in historic buildings that once defined it, it has gained in street art, pop-up food trucks, and unusual architecture that fuses the old with the new.</p></div>
  

  
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            <figure class="richtext-image full-width"><img alt="Christchurch.jpeg" class="richtext-image full-width" height="1000" width="800"
            src="/wgbh/nova/media/images/Christchurch.width-800.jpg"/><figcaption><p>The cathedral in the center of Christchurch, New Zealand is in ruins; still, pop-up food trucks and street art help infuse the old with the new. <i>Photo credit: Arlo Perez</i></p><div class="credit"><p></p></div></figcaption>
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            <p></p><p>It was good that we had the day to rest, because Sunday was a busy day. Aside from some orientation, which took a while and was not particularly exciting, we went to the <a href="https://www.usap.gov/">Clothing Distribution Center</a> (CDC) and were officially issued our Extreme Cold Weather (ECW) gear. Friday was a sneak peek, but this was the real deal. I tried on a whole bunch of different fleeces and boots and insulated pants and jackets. The first jacket I put on, “Big Red,” was too large—it felt like a tent. The second one fit well, but was shorter and I was afraid it wouldn’t be warm enough. I agonized for about an hour over this decision, much to Arlo and Zac’s bemusement. I went with the one that fit better but might not have been as warm.</p><p>Then it was back to the hotel for final preparations before “the ice,” as Antarctica is called. We won’t have a good internet connection once we get to the ice, so this was our last chance to downloaded documents, music, and videos. Arlo and I posted photos and sent out some updates. We tried to catch up with emails and take care of any other outstanding communications. So, there was lots to do. Soon, we’d be going back to 1990s-era internet speeds. As millennials, we find this is terrifying.</p><p>We were told to report to the passenger terminal for the U.S. Antarctic Program at 4:45 the next morning. The passenger terminal is not only the portal for American Antarctic scientists, but also for New Zealand and Italian scientists. Antarctica is a continent that no country owns, and on which no military actions can be conducted. Fifty countries, including the United States, recognize the <a href="https://www.ats.aq/e/ats.htm">Antarctic Treaty</a>, which preserves the continent for the peaceful conduct of research. That is why the National Science Foundation is in charge of United States operations. And, with this treaty, <a href="https://phys.org/news/2018-10-country-antarctica-science.html">nations have agreed</a> to support each other in the operational logistics of conducting the research. The U.S., for its part, helps other nations with flights to the ice. New Zealand helps with ground operation logistics in Christchurch.</p></div>
  

  
      <div class="rich-text"><p>In the wee hours of the morning, a little fairy slipped a piece of paper under my hotel room door saying the flight was delayed, and that we should report at 8 a.m. Too bad I was already up and ready to go! Thus began the waiting game. I texted with Mom. The boys and I went to our favorite coffee spot, The Coffee Club. I particularly like the name of it because Arlo, Zac, and I <i>are</i> a coffee club, all with a mutual respect and understanding for the need to have a good cup of caffeine every morning. Around 7 a.m., we got another slip of paper under the door: delayed until 10 a.m. This was in all likelihood a weather delay, and at breakfast, we met with some U.S. Air Force guys (they operate the planes) who confirmed it. Our chances of getting to the ice today were starting to look slim.</p><p>But then we got a confirmation: Get there at 10 a.m. We did. I was running late because I had a minor jacket panic and decided that I had made the wrong decision yesterday. Fortunately, Haggis and the friendly folks at the CDC were happy to let me swap my jacket one last time. I can only imagine how Arlo and Zac were making fun of me in the hall.</p><p>We put on all of our cold weather gear—it was sweltering—and stood on a big scale with all our gear and our carry-on. They weighed our bags. And we waited some more. It was kind of just like a regular airport terminal, x-ray machine and all, except our boarding passes were plastic tags that they reuse. Also everyone is in oversized puffy clothing. We boarded buses out to our aircraft, grabbed bagged lunches as we climbed aboard, and found our seats.</p><p><a href="https://www.stuff.co.nz/environment/107846223/antarctica-nz-scientists-due-to-fly-south-after-weather-causes-twoweek-delay">Because the weather is iffy</a>, we might have to “boomerang” back to Christchurch if we can’t land. The C-17 has enough fuel to fly the five-ish hours to Antarctica, circle for 45 minutes waiting for weather to clear, and then to return to Christchurch if it isn’t safe to land. That’s an 11-hour flight and we’d end up back in the airport hotel, having coffee at The Coffee Club the next morning. It would be a big bummer. We even had to pack a “boomerang bag” with anything that we’d need for a couple days in Christchurch, because if we do boomerang, we wouldn’t get our checked luggage back.</p><p>The U.S. Air Force team running the plane has been incredibly nice, and allowed Zac, Arlo, and me to go up to the cockpit to check it out. Multiple times. This is a particular treat because C-17s don’t have windows. And as we climbed the ladder to the cockpit, we glimpsed our first bit of ice. It wasn’t anything like I was expecting. I had always imagined that the ice started more abruptly—open ocean, and then ice. But starting at around 800 miles away from the continent, what we beheld was more like kaleidoscopic swirls, as if a mirage. As we flew on, the patterned ice gave way to more <a href="https://www.livescience.com/63875-weird-square-iceberg-antarctica.html">geometric shapes</a>, and became more solid. And then, we spotted stunning ice-covered mountains that the pilots said they couldn’t identify on the charts yet.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>This truly is uncharted territory. The last great wilderness on Earth. Arlo and I were awestruck. Dumbfounded. Overpowered by the majesty of the continent unfolding before us. We can’t wait to start exploring it.</p><p>The pilots said that the weather conditions were right on the borderline of being safe enough to land. We gave them some Polar Extremes stickers, and pleaded with them not to boomerang.</p><p>At the time I’m writing this, we still haven’t landed. Gosh, I hope we get there today.</p></div>
  



<p>Members of the NOVA team are headed to Antarctica to report on science research at the bottom of the Earth. Here&#x27;s their second dispatch.</p>

Dispatches from Antarctica: Part 2





  
      <div class="rich-text"><p>Mount Erebus: A fiery, active volcano in the land of ice. It is a behemoth soaring over 12,000 feet above the sea ice, and everywhere we went near <a href="https://www.nsf.gov/geo/opp/support/mcmurdo.jsp">McMurdo</a>, the mighty volcano loomed. It is the southernmost active volcano in the world, and it has regular small eruptions. At times, a bubbling lava lake can be spotted in its crater.</p><p>Since the first moments that I signed on to this project, getting up <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/antarctica-erupts-140405968/">Mount Erebus</a> was the ultimate goal. The dichotomy of a hot and active geological feature on this frozen continent is fascinating. And, it speaks to the central question of NOVA’s forthcoming <i>Polar Extremes</i> film: what makes the planet hot, and what makes it cold?</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p><a href="https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/article/dispatches-antarctica-new-reality/">In Antarctica</a>—in this seemingly lifeless, barren, still environment—Earth’s internal plate tectonic machinery roars, heedless of the chill on the surface of the planet. Just below the icy landscape is evidence of our planet’s internal volcanic heat. It is visible. You can see it seeping out the cracks on Mt. Erebus. <i>That</i> is what we wanted to capture – the intersection of the icy and fiery realms.</p><p>But the trip wasn’t going to be easy. First: Erebus creates its own weather. To get there, we’d need good weather in McMurdo so our helicopter could get out. And then good weather on the volcano. In addition to rolling doubles on the weather, we’d need to coordinate our schedule with a mountaineer… someone who could come with us to help us find safe paths for traversing. Then, there was altitude: we’d be going straight from sea level up to about 9,000 feet. But the pressure altitude—or the altitude that it would effectively feel like on our bodies—was 12,000 feet.</p><p>And finally, cold. This would be the coldest environment we’d work in by far on the entire trip: -30 degrees Fahrenheit. I was going to the coldest place I’ve ever gone in my life to get a story about Earth’s heat. In researching for this trip, one scientist told me that when you get out of the helicopter, everything just hurts.</p><p>It took us until day 25 of our 28-day trip to get our chance to go up there. By this point, I had resigned myself to its not happening. But on the very last Friday of our trip, we got our window.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>I was surprised that two helicopters were allotted for our trip—a small <a href="https://www.heliusa.com/types-of-helicopters/a-star-helicopter/">AStar</a>, and a larger 212. Coming with me were Zac and Arlo (of course), and mountaineer Dennis Haskell. I thought we’d be limited on space, but when I learned we had two helicopters, I inquired about bringing a scientist with us who had studied the Erebus volcano, and could add expert commentary to our footage. That scientist was Jessie Crain, who had spent much time on Erebus, studying the gases that the volcano emits. Now, she works for the NSF as the <a href="https://www.nsf.gov/geo/opp/antarct/usap.jsp">Antarctic Research Support Manager</a>.</p><p>Even though we were scheduled to go, nothing was certain. The pilots were concerned that the moisture in the atmosphere would cause the helicopters to contrail. Just like an airplane can create contrails at altitude, the blades of the helicopters could whip a cloud into existence from thin air. Except unlike a plane, the cloud would not actually trail the machine, it would envelop it, making it impossible to land or take off.</p><p>The AStar went first with Dennis and Zac, who would be able to better film out of the large AStar windows. Arlo, Jessie, and I hung back in McMurdo awaiting word that the conditions were okay for the larger helicopter to attempt the trip. We waited in anticipation for the go-ahead. It was quiet on the helo pad, as it was late in the day—maybe 8pm. This was by design, since the light is better for filming late in the day, and the helicopters are easier to schedule at night. Finally, we got the thumbs: all clear. There would be some contrailing, but nothing that would need to scrap the mission.</p><p>The flight up to Erebus was, in a word, stunning. The late evening sunlight made the fine contours of the volcano glow. Gasses billowed from the crater. What we saw was mostly water vapor, but mixed into that was carbon dioxide, from deep in the Earth. Collectively, the planet’s volcanoes emit carbon dioxide that warm the planet over geologic timescales. Even during times when the globe was completely covered by ice, volcanism persisted, slowly heating the planet. (The amount of carbon dioxide emitted by volcanoes today is miniscule in comparison to how much humanity is emitting from fossil fuels).</p><p></p>
            <figure class="richtext-image full-width"><img alt="Erebus2.jpg" class="richtext-image full-width" height="600" width="800"
            src="/wgbh/nova/media/images/Erebus2.width-800.jpg"/><figcaption><p>View of Mt. Erebus from the NOVA team&#x27;s helicopter. &quot;A camera. 13,000 feet up in the air. Against the -20 degree Fahrenheit air current,&quot; says associate digital producer Arlo Perez. &quot;I have never been more scared of dropping something in my life.&quot; </p><div class="credit"><p></p></div></figcaption>
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            <p></p><p>We were heading towards a site called Cone Z, where a swarm of steaming <a href="https://volcanoes.usgs.gov/vsc/glossary/fumarole.html">fumaroles</a> were visible. When we touched down, it was -30F. Instant cold. But, miraculously, it was windless. And without wind, the cold just isn’t that bothersome, especially with all our extreme cold weather gear. I never thought I’d say “-30 degrees Fahrenheit just isn’t that bad.” Zac actually didn’t even need to wear his big red parka for a while.</p><p>But, there were ways that the cold made itself known. Almost immediately, my breath fogged my sunglasses, and then the moisture froze, rendering the sunglasses useless. I couldn’t see out of them. The moisture from my breath also instantaneously frosted my eyelashes and the curls of hair that poked from beneath my hat. I live in Boston and am no stranger to frozen hair… but this was different. This was <i>frosted</i> hair. Quite the fashion statement.</p><p>We took preventative measures to deal with the cold and altitude. We brought canisters of oxygen for all of the mission participants to take breaths from. (Getting that O2 to the continent was no easy feat, since compressed air must ship to Antarctica as hazardous cargo.) We had a thermos of tea, and lots of sugary snacks. And of course, hand and foot warmers. I felt fine, but I was puffing and eating and drinking preventatively. I was concerned, however, that Arlo indicated he was feeling slightly unwell, especially whenever he was down on his knees working with the camera equipment.</p><p>The fumaroles were only about 50-100 feet from where we landed. And they were spectacular. This is where steam from the volcano seeps out. But the steam instantly freezes, just like my breath did on my eyelashes and sunglasses. The result is cartoonish towers of ice that look like something from a Dr. Seuss book. This landscape did not look like it belonged on Earth.</p><p>Our first objective was flying the drone, since that would be the most valuable footage, and because we wanted to take advantage of the lack of wind while it lasted. Drones are not supposed to operate at -30 degrees Fahrenheit. Ours was rated to operate down to 32 degrees Fahrenheit—not <i>negative</i> 30 degrees Fahrenheit. And we did have trouble. All the electronics were finicky. But we got it in the air… and then it started behaving badly. Wobbling a bit. What’s going on? Zac noticed it wasn’t behaving appropriately. Arlo realized it was when it was near the fumaroles that it happened. And I put together that the heat from the fumaroles must have been creating an updraft that led to instability. A nice bit of teamwork… at least our brains were still operating. Okay… let’s fly a wee bit further from the fumaroles.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>Next, we walked right up to the <a href="https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/mt-erebus">ice towers</a>. Along the way, Jessie pointed out to me volcanic rocks with famous Erebus crystals embedded in them. These were large bits of the mineral feldspar embedded in the matrix of dark volcanic rock. The fumaroles we found created something like a crown of towers. There was one that was open, and we could get close to it and feel the steam… but Jessie explained that we could not go in or get <i>too</i> close to the opening because this steamy environment made the fumaroles a sensitive ecosystem, conducive to fostering microbial life that were of scientific interest. We did not want to contaminate, so we kept our distance.</p><p>By now, it was maybe 11pm. Of course, it felt like about 5pm because of the light. But the marine cloud layer was rising, and we got an urgent message from the pilots down the hill, we had to hastily get out of there or the helicopters might get stuck above the clouds. It had only been a couple hours, and we scrambled to get our stuff together. As we were packing out, I recall Arlo struggling with some gear on the ground maybe 20 feet away from me. He was the last one of our group, furthest from the helicopters, and tucked behind one of the fumaroles out of sight of everyone else. I had to grab our 360 camera, and Arlo waved me away, as if to say “go on ahead.”</p><p>But, something seemed not quite right. He seemed to be futzing with the gear, but what was he doing? We were in a rush. We had to get going. He was saying, “go on.” If I left, no one would be able to see him. I was not sure what to do. Was he okay? Should I take care of grabbing that 360-degree camera so we could get of here?</p><p>I stayed put. “No, I am waiting for you.” “Go on.” “No, I am waiting for you.” After a few minutes he got up and we walked down the hill together. In retrospect, he realized and told me that he had not been fine. He was suffering from altitude disorientation. “I felt like I was intoxicated. I don’t know why I was telling you to go away.”</p><p>It was a startling reminder of how extreme this environment really is.</p><p>This was truly the most Polar Extreme.</p><p><i>Science Editor Caitlin Saks and Digital Associate Producer Arlo Perez are in Antarctica for the next month reporting about science research in Antarctica as a part of NOVA’s</i> “Polar Extremes” <i>project, which is funded by the National Science Foundation. Joining them is Zac Fink, field director and director of photography. Caitlin is writing home frequently and tweeting about her adventures (@caitlin_saks).</i></p></div>
  



<p>Beneath the frozen Antarctic ice, Earth’s plate tectonic machinery roars. Mt. Erebus, the southernmost active volcano in the world, is a window into this internal machinery.</p>

Dispatches from Antarctica: Mt. Erebus, the Most Polar Extreme





  
      <div class="rich-text"><p><i>October 20, 2018:</i></p><p>This is what I texted home to my husband when I got back from the field today:</p><p>One of the most stunning, unforgettable, magical experiences of my entire life.</p><p>It has taken a long time to get here. About <a href="https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/article/dispatches-antarctica-part-1/">a week of travel to Antarctica</a>. And then once in Antarctica, another week of tedious training. I say “tedious” not because the training itself was boring—actually, it was quite helpful and, in some cases, even fun. But tedious because it has felt like we haven’t even really started our project yet. I’ve been watching the days whiz by without our being out in Antarctica <i>filming</i>, which is what we need to do.</p><p>But then, there was today.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>We aimed to leave around noon, but actually got out of town around 2 pm—which was a marked improvement in how far behind schedule we have been running. We hopped on snowmobiles and headed out to <a href="https://geographic.org/geographic_names/antname.php?uni=1362&amp;fid=antgeo_102">Big Razorback Island</a>, a little over 10 miles away from McMurdo Station. It’s a 45-minute ride, which of course took us two hours because we had to stop to take pictures; that’s how we roll.</p><p>Big Razorback is a ridge of land poking up through the sea ice. Most would imagine that land means safe-haven. But here, land means <i>cracks</i>. The ice that is attached to the dry terrain is strained and warped as tides rise and fall, and as the sea ice flows. As the ice is stretched and compressed, cracks form. While hazardous to the humans who have no rightful place in this landscape, the cracks provide a lifeline for another mammal: seals. Specifically, <a href="https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/w/weddell-seal/">Weddell seals</a>.</p><p>We were heading out to meet Jay Rotella and his team of seal researchers. They set up a charming little outpost on the leeward side of the island: four small huts housing eight people. A fleet of snow mobiles were parked outside. And a colony of seals speckled what I thought of as the “back yard.” I have seen seals before back in the states. My impression was that they are sort of like lazy beach slugs, so my expectations were not all that high.</p><p>But what we beheld took my breath away.</p><p>It is pupping season for these Weddell seals, and within just a few seconds of our entering their area, we started spotting babies. They were just days old, puppy eyed and snuggling with their moms. At the first mom/pup pair we reached, we stood transfixed for minutes just watching. I couldn’t help but coo at the pup as if he were a newborn child… encouraging him to find his mom’s milk. We watched him flop around, struggling to find a nipple, and then finally succeed. On a diet of fatty milk, this baby would grow from the size of a second grader to the size of a professional football player in about a month!</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>Off by the sea ice cracks, we caught a few males yapping at each other, fighting for territory. Another male was resting in the water with just his nose floating in the air to breath. Not far away, we came across another mom and pup. <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Bp0S8wZht4b/">This pup</a> was a few weeks older, and we watched as mom slipped into the water and then called for her baby. The young pup wasn’t ready to go swimming yet, and so threw a tantrum. Mom called back to him trying to coax him in. It went on for over 30 minutes… but the pup would have none of it. After a while, they seemed to reach a stalemate, as mom kept swimming, and the pup laid despondent on the ice.</p><p>We went in to the Rotella’s camp huts for dinner; burgers, beans, and fries were on the menu. The Rotella seal team is tightly knit. You can sense it in their demeanor as they banter and laugh together. They share the responsibilities of cooking and cleaning… and, of course, of doing the research. But most of all you can see it in their eyes when they talk with each other over dinner. There is a deep-seated mutual respect all around, from the youngest student to the seasoned veterans.</p><p>It was, frankly, inspiring.</p><p>We are a small film crew. It is just three of us, and we are all doing everything. (Well… I guess I let the guys do a bit more of the heavy lifting). It’s kind of crazy, and at times very intense. Arlo or I usually try to avoid being on camera together, so we can support Zac behind the camera. In our first week of being a team, we’ve rapidly learned how to work with each other. At times it has been a challenge, as we learned each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and how to work constructively with both. And I think I’m actually starting to feel the same strands of kinship form that I saw in the Rotella team. It is a bond forged of necessity, when you are with the same people day in and day out, all day long. You have no choice but to become dependent. Just like that mom and her seal pup.</p><p>After dinner, we went back outside to do a bit more filming and discovered that a new pup was born while we ate dinner. Mom and pup were still bonding, forging those essential tendrils of kinship… so we didn’t get too close. This was the miracle of life in its purest form, and it was not our place to disturb that.</p><p>I would have never guessed when I woke up that morning that I was going to experience something so profoundly fundamental to being a living creature on this Earth. Something so raw, so real. This is not a human experience, this is a <i>living</i> experience—this is what it means to be alive on planet Earth. It is not easy for me to put it into words, but it felt powerful—a feeling not in my mind, but in my soul. And… I am not just talking about seeing the seals in their natural habitat, living, giving birth.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>I am also talking about how I witnessed and <i>experienced</i> how we humans pull together in a way that is just awe-inspiring.</p><p>We left the Rotella team around midnight – characteristically behind schedule. We drove off into the eternal sunset of the midnight October Antarctic sky. I was so <i>proud</i>. Not only did we witness some of the most miraculous natural wonders that this planet has to offer, but as a team, we jelled. We were <i>working.</i> We succeeded. It felt <i>so good</i>.</p><p><i>This reporting was conducted under the authority of NMFS MMP A Permit No. 21158- 01</i></p></div>
  



<p>The NOVA team in Antarctica visits Big Razorback Island, where a colony of playful seals give them an unforgettable experience.</p>

Dispatches from Antarctica: Pupping Season for Weddell Seals





  
      <div class="rich-text"><p><i>November 3, 2018:</i></p><p>The penguins. They were the most anticipated part of <a href="https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/article/dispatches-antarctica-part-1/">the trip</a>—the most crucial thing to capture. It was clearly laid out that for NOVA, getting footage of penguins was priority #1 for this project.</p><p>So, of course, Penguin Day was the day on which nothing went according to plan.</p><p>The Adelie Penguin colony near <a href="https://www.nsf.gov/geo/opp/support/mcmurdo.jsp">McMurdo Station</a> is a helicopter ride away, on Cape Royds. Barren and moon-like, the cape’s craggy hills of dark volcanic rock are covered in patches of snow. Patches, because it’s so windswept. The formidable active volcano Mt. Erebus looms in the background.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>We flew late in the day—a dazzling helicopter flight lit by the golden evening sun. For the first time, we saw a wall of a glacier plunge to meet the sea ice, icebergs lodged in the sea ice like islands of ice trapped in yet more ice, and… the open ocean, which was not far beyond Cape Royds. The penguins, after all, need the ocean for food, and they migrate with the ice edge, coming here in summer to nest, lay eggs, and raise their chicks.</p><p>When we touched down… that’s when things started to go off course.</p><p>It was WINDY here. We met with the two adventurous women who call this landscape home for several months of the year, and who welcomed us into their camp: Jean Pennycook and Katie Dugger. They had a humble accommodation: a wood-frame with thick fabric covering it. Something like a cross between a hut and a tent.</p><p></p><p></p>
            <figure class="richtext-image full-width"><img alt="P1077775.jpg" class="richtext-image full-width" height="450" width="800"
            src="/wgbh/nova/media/images/P1077775.width-800.jpg"/><figcaption><p>Photo courtesy Arlo Perez</p><div class="credit"><p></p></div></figcaption>
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            <p></p><p></p><p>The penguin colony was about a 10-minute walk down from the camp, and we aimed to collect footage that evening with that nice sunset light. But the cold here is different from the cold in McMurdo. The Cape is more exposed to the Southern Ocean. The wind lashes and bites. Our hopes of flying a drone here quickly blew away. Better to have blown hopes than a blown drone. I was immediately chilled to the bone. Recalling my Antarctic Field Safety Training about how to keep warm, I pulled out my only food—an energy bar that was frozen solid and tasted like cardboard—the grossest thing I have eaten in a long time. It didn’t help that it was three years past the expiration date—we were told “expiration dates aren’t really a thing here.” I had to gnaw off a bite and let it sit in my mouth for a minute just to get it warm enough to chew. Zac’s fingers—which had to be exposed to control the camera, were so cold that he had to stop to take frequent breaks.</p><p>But, it was stunning. My brain couldn’t make up its mind—was I enamored or distressed? A bit of both, I guess. We filmed for as long as we could bear. In addition to being cold, it was late: 11 or 12 at night.</p><p>When we got back up to the camp we settled in for the night. The boys were out in a tent, which they had proudly pitched. Arlo perfected his trucker’s hitch under Zac’s tutelage. (Something about 30+ mile per hour winds is a great motivator for learning how to tie knots to keep your tent down.) Preferring not to be the third person in a two-person tent, I slept inside the hut with the lady scientists… though I was a bit disappointed to not get the Antarctic Camping experience. (The other tent was too complicated to set up in these winds.)</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>As evening gave way to early morning, the winds picked up. The fabric walls of the tent thwapped without mercy, waking me up around 4 or 5 am. I was cold most of the night, as the limited heat is turned off at night. And, apparently, I climbed into my sleeping bag upside down, so the hood part was not zipped up correctly. Beginner’s mistake. By 5:30 we were all awake inside the hut, and our hosts told me I should go get the boys. The winds were gusting above 50 miles per hour—that is the kind of wind that rips tents away. They assured me that Zac and Arlo would be freezing and would want to come in.</p><p>In fact, they were sound asleep, enjoying their rugged adventure.</p><p>But soon they came in. We turned the heater on in the hut and made coffee and toast for breakfast, the wind thwapping at the hut all the while.</p><p>There was no way we could film in this.</p><p>So began the waiting game. We, ironically, had access to the internet and Skype because Jean had it arranged for her own outreach efforts. I called my 10-year-old niece—and the look of wonder on her face was worth this entire trip. I took the tablet outside briefly and she got to peek at Antarctica in its most raw and fearsome form. I felt like a hero—it was the most amazing feeling of the day. We also Skyped back to the NOVA home office to say hi. That was fun; but it also served as an unhelpful reminder of how important the penguin episode is. “It’s not that cold!” they exclaimed.</p><p>Until you are in Antarctica, you can’t understand it. It isn’t just the cold. The wind is a menace unto itself—gusts easily pick up with no trees or vegetation to break them. Not only does it make it effectively colder, but it makes filming nearly impossible. The camera buffets and gets blasted by dust. To film, you need to stand in one place and can’t move—nearly impossible in these winds. Sound recordings are rendered unusable thanks to the wind noise. Our clothing is heavy and bulky, like wearing spacesuits, making every movement cumbersome. Our hosts—also our guides into the penguin colony, were not going out.</p><p>As my concerns were mounting, so was my anxiety. It was paralyzing. This was the most important episode—the<i> penguin</i> episode. But Antarctica had other plans. Now there was surely no time to capture the crucial footage as I had planned it.</p><p>A solution began to materialize. <i>This</i> was now the story: this storm is the reality of doing science in Antarctica. We’d interview Jean in the hut, not outside. And we’d get as much footage as we could of the penguins once the winds died down. It wasn’t ideal, but this is the real Antarctica. Roll with the punches (or the winds, rather). Adapt on the fly. “It’s a harsh continent” is how early explorer Robert Falcon Scott described it. Someone quotes him on this every day here.</p><p>And this plan worked. We turned the hut into a television studio. And, by the time we finished, the winds were back into the manageable under-30 mph range. We geared up and headed out to the colony. But first we chowed down on some of Jean’s homemade soup.</p><p>Our challenges were not over yet. We got about 30 minutes of filming with the penguins. And then, a radio call from McMurdo: more weather coming. We either had to leave <i>now</i> or stay the weekend—two more days.</p><p>Decisions.</p><p>Staying the weekend would cost us in footage for other episodes, but we were still just on the line of having enough of the penguins. NOVA really wants penguins! As a team, we usually consult with each other. We creatively collaborate. But at this moment an immediate decision has to be made, and it’s a catch-22. There just needs to be an executive decision.</p><p>Gulp.</p><p>I decided pulling out was best for the project overall. We mobilized quickly and hauled back to camp. What should have taken two hours of packing camera gear, we accomplished in 20 minutes. We threw batteries and microphones, tripod plates and camera mounts into the closest bag. We got help from Jean and Katie to quickly pull down the tent. We had no idea what was packed where—but it was all packed (we think). And then we waited for the helicopter to arrive.</p></div>
  

  
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      <div class="rich-text"><p>And waited…</p><p>And waited...</p><p>We called Helo Ops to get an update. Weather had moved in, we’d need to stand by. Maybe we would be spending the weekend after all… “Welcome to Antarctica: Hurry up and wait!”</p><p>By now, the cameras were totally disassembled and put away, so all there was to do was toast the Antarctic winds, and chat with Jean and Katie about Antarctic lore.</p><p>Luckily, the helicopter did make it out to get us after a few hours. Funnily enough, we ended up leaving at exactly the time we had originally planned. Only we spent most of our trip Far From Penguins… experiencing what it is really like to work in Antarctica.</p><p><i>Science Editor Caitlin Saks and Digital Associate Producer Arlo Perez are in Antarctica for the next month reporting about science research in Antarctica as a part of NOVA’s</i> “Polar Extremes” <i>project, which is funded by the National Science Foundation. Joining them is Zac Fink, field director and director of photography.</i></p></div>
  



<p>The NOVA team&#x27;s attempt to film a penguin colony didn&#x27;t quite go according to plan.</p>

Caitlin Saks