I finally got of ‘town’. I’m just an ol’ country boy, and the bright lights and fast pace of McMurdo were beginning to give me a headache, so it was time to head for the hills and some peace and quiet. After an early rise and some communications with the helo dispatcher, I make several trips with my gear to the pad -- home to four helicopters of two sizes. For larger loads and more passengers, there are two Bell 212’s, and for most flights there are two four-seat French-built Aerospatialle A-Stars. These are more maneuverable, and a thus lot more fun. I present at the Pax Terminal (a grandiose name for a small trailer) for a briefing ("Don’t touch any knobs, switches, or levers in flight, on the ground don’t walk into the tail rotor...") and get fitted with a helmet which includes built-in speakers and mike.

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We load my bags into an external cargo cage bolted to the left skid and climb in. With some difficulty I fit my four-point harness over my huge red government-issued parka -- mandatory wear for all flights-- then put on my helmet, plug it in and check that the coms are working. Scotty, the pilot, is in the right seat, I am to the left. This seems a bit odd, since in the small fixed-wing planes I’m used to the pilot is always to the left, but I’ll get used to it. He lights the turbine, and we lift off and head out over the ice of the sound, heading a bit north of west.

I have spent many hours airborne in helicopters, some of them shooting pictures out the open door, but I never tire of the experience. The sense of freedom that comes of the ability to hover and land anywhere, even if one doesn’t exercise it, is exhilarating and liberating. Scotty and I chat as we zoom over the featureless flat sea ice at 100 knots and 100’ up. He is an oddity, a professional pilot who is not ex military. He chucked a good job in industry, sold or hocked everything he had and went to flight school. There it is again, I think. Everybody I meet here on The Ice is driven from deep inside, and instead of just dreaming, they make their dreams happen. It is refreshing and inspiring to be surrounded by such spirits.

In twenty minutes we have crossed the sound, and are climbing into the Taylor Valley. This is one of the extraordinary McMurdo Dry Valleys (‘dry’ around here means largely ice-free). They have been fully glaciated in the distant past -- their telltale U-shaped section gives that away in a hurry -- but as far as is known they have been as they are for a long, long time. They are full of beauty, of majesty, and of mysteries.

We pass Commonwealth Glacier, which descends chaotically from the right (north) to the valley floor, where it spreads out and calms down. Its meltwater -- running only in this season -- is the major contributor to Lake Frixel, at its feet. Then Canada Glacier, a sibling to the first. We zoom around its terminus and there, close to the vertical side face of the ice and to the lake it has helped generate, is a collection of four or five sheds and a half-dozen tents: Lake Hoare camp. This will be my home for the next few days.

When the helo that has brought me to this place lifts off and the noise subsides, I am greeted by two women I will grow quite fond of in the next few days. Rae Spain, the camp manager, and her assistant Heidi Hausman. They have been in this stark and lovely spot since November, initially alone as they work to get the camp running for the summer season. Quite a few people, almost all of them scientists, cycle through here in the course of a summer. The main camp hut is about 15 feet by thirty or thirty five feet. Two thirds of it are taken up with a kitchen area and a long table, and the remainder has a few bunk beds, used only for naps, and some tables holding computers connected by broadband to McMurdo and to the world.

Heidi gives me a briefing of special camp routines and details. Some are evident, such as the solar panels that have reduced the generator run time from 10 hours a day to 20 a season, despite heavy loads such as coffeepots and the microwave. The refrigerator is propane-powered, just like my own in my summer camp. I think I know a few things about camping and about living in rustic structures, but nevertheless a few aspects here are new to me. These valleys comprise an extremely fragile and unique ecological net, and one that is still only partially understood. Extraordinary measures are taken to ensure that they are not disturbed. All water is collected, put in drums, and returned by helo to McMurdo. This includes urine, dish water, the drops that miss when you splash your face in the morning, even water from the lake itself that has touched nothing other than a sterilized sample bottle.

A liter plastic container branded with a magic marker on the lid with a large 'P' came with the sleep kit I was issued back at MCM.. Everyone is required to have one of these when away from camp. Since no liquid is to be dispensed on the ground or ice, its purpose is obvious.

Heidi has been leading up to the‘piece de resistance, the rocket toilet. Officially they are "wilderness comfort stations" but the only accurate part of that claim is "wilderness." It is expensive to fly sling loads (cargo suspended beneath a helo) any distance. These devices are propane powered. When the receptacle gets full, the burners are fired off and the material is turned to ash: much easier to retrograde. You don’t want to be downwind though when this happens.

Everybody sleeps in their own tent, even Rae and Heidi. Although I have brought one, there is a pyramidal Scott tent already pitched and available for me, so I move in. It is no more than twenty yards from the massive glacier wall, with its lateral meltwater stream gurgling cheerfully adjacent.

Later that evening, feeling I deserve a sit-down rest after hiking eight or ten miles through fairly rough terrain past another glacier (Suess) to a lovely pond (Mummy Lake) up the valley, I sit down with Rae, Heidi, and three scientists to a cozy, family-style meal. It is quite a change in atmosphere from the institutional meal setting at MCM. I quickly learn why Rae is famous throughout the program for her meals. Overnights at Lake Hoare are eagerly sought after, and the sequencing of scientific planning is frequently adjusted for this reason.

Before retiring, I sit on a rock and lean comfortably against a boulder near my tent. The quiet, broken only by the stream, is tangible, and I listen to it with gratitude. The huge sleeping mass of ice at by back is a comforting guardian; the towering peaks of the Asgard Range to my right and the slightly more restrained heights of the Kukri Hills across the valley restrict my view, and focus it on the ramparted Suess glacier I visited a few hours ago. Earlier in the day it hadn’t taken me long to figure out that Rae, after eight seasons in this valley, is completely besotted with it. I find this totally understandable: I can feel twinges of it already in myself. This is not just a location: this is a Place.