Well, I made it back alive from two-day Snow Survival School -- also known as "Happy Camper" -- so I guess that means I graduated. Those who don’t make it are just dumped into a crevasse (just kidding). It is a lot of fun, despite the seriousness of the topic. Happy Camper is a prerequisite for anybody wishing or expecting to get off the base in any capacity-- which is just about everybody.

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At 0900 yesterday, a dozen of us reported to the Science Support Building for an initial hour of discussion with instructor Brennan Brunner about hypothermia: what it is, how to recognize its onset in oneself and others, and what to do about it. The prospect of spending a night (though it's an abstract concept in 24-hour sunlight) out on the McMurdo Ice Shelf sharpens one’s attention wonderfully.

Then we all climb into a queer, Swedish-built, split-personality contraption called a Hagglunds for the half-hour ride out to the shelf, where we are to reside for the duration of the school. After an hour or two in a Jamesway (a heated, insulated, semi-cylindrical tent that looks like a soft Quonset hut) breaking apart, reassembling, and lighting our multi-fuel cook stoves, we pile out. We pack our sleeping gear into large duffles; it has been thawing and drying in a heated shed, recovering from the last class through. Aside from the full complement of polar clothing that we have brought with us, we each have a sleeping bag that is theoretically effective to 20 below zero, a fleece liner for same, and two Ensolite foam pads for underneath it. It all goes into the Hagglunds, leaving no room for us, so we walk the half-mile or so out to the spot on the ice that will be our home for the next 24 hours.

First lesson: how to pitch a Scott tent, a very heavy but very practical pyramidal affair whose design has remained essentially unchanged for a century, and which figures hugely in Antarctic history. They are still very much in use today.

Then a lot of hard work erecting a quinzee. We assemble in a circle with shovels, and build a dome of snow six or eight feet high and about fifteen in diameter -- a lot of snow. At intervals we pat it down to compact it. The labor makes us all thirsty, and those of us who thought ahead pull their water bottles out from whatever crevice in their clothing they have been stashed to keep them from freezing. We share with those few unfortunates who forgot: we are all in this together.

Next, we pitch a pair of more modern mountain tents, of a dome design familiar to any present-day camper. To protect these from the ever-present shelf wind, we cut blocks of wind-packed crust and erect a curving wall about four feet high and 40 to 50 feet long. Then, another wall to protect a "kitchen" area from the wind so we can light the stoves for a hot drink of powdered cider, cocoa, tea. Somehow this morphs into a dinner of dehydrated substances from packages with differing labels, all of which look and taste the same. It doesn’t matter; our common labor and purpose has substantially bonded us into a team, and that energy propels us forward without concern for such details.

I do the arithmetic. With two Scott tents, a quinzee (the mound has been hollowed out), and two mountain tents, there will be multiple close-quartered occupants in each. I decide that I can sleep in a tent anytime, but this is a chance to experiment, so I commence digging a snow cave, which I will cover with a sled for a roof. Despite the small size of the opening, dictated by the size of the sled, I soon have a quite adequate below-grade shelter, completely isolated from the wind. This seems to inspire others, and soon several are digging and erecting a variety of architecturally diverse shelters nearby. I joke that I should have bought more of this real estate when it was cheap, since now I could make a killing selling lots.

When the construction dies down at about 11 p.m. we retire, though the sun is still blazing away. I crawl into my cave, drag my gear in after me, then close it from beneath with the sled gasketed with the covers from the Scott tents. It is not dark -- a lovely blue light filters through several feet of packed snow. I remove my outer-shell layers, spread out my bag and pads, and crawl in with my water bottle so it won’t freeze overnight. For the next two hours I progressively remove inner clothing layers until I stop sweating -- snow is an excellent insulator-- and finally sleep the sleep of the just. I naturally don’t qualify, but I sleep as if I did.

The next morning, after powdered coffee, day-old sandwiches and granola bars that taste like a banquet, instructor Brennan briefs us on VHF (very high frequency) and HF (high frequency) radios. Alice, an undergraduate from one of the science teams, places a call to the South Pole station, over a thousand miles away. I pay attention when they report temps of minus-20 C -- about 0 degrees F -- since I am to fly there in the next few days.

We pile into the Hagglunds and head back to base, glad that we can get on with our field work, but also glad that we got to dig in the snow like a bunch of unsupervised 10-year olds. We are, after all, Happy Campers.

Tomorrow: Learning to survive the cracks